


Avalanche

by aizawashouta



Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Engagement, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Olympics, Romance, national team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23147596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aizawashouta/pseuds/aizawashouta
Summary: “I’m no genius, Wakatoshi, and they made sure I’ll never forget it.”To Oikawa’s surprise, Ushijima merely raises an eyebrow, open incredulity flickering in his stare where Oikawa expected to see the same old twinge of pity his former coaches would regard him with upon catching him practicing late into the night, followed by a stern reminder that blowing out his knee a second time won’t get him any closer to bridging the gap.Nothing ever will, they didn’t have to say.“And who are they to decide that?”
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: stormy waters [an ushioi collection] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1664299
Comments: 80
Kudos: 408





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally back with the promised sequel to Hiding in Plain Sight - sorry that it's taken me so long! As you can probably tell, the length of this story got _slightly_ out of control, which is why I decided to break it up into two chapters. Chapter two fully outlined and I'll do my best to update as soon as I can. I'm a bit of a slow writer though, so please bear with me haha.
> 
> I can't thank everyone who left me a comment and/or kudo on the first part of this series enough - I hope you guys understand just how happy it made me to read everyone's thoughts! It's been a huge help to keep me motivated while working on the sequel. 
> 
> Please let me know if you're enjoying this part of the story as well! ♡

_“Damn,_ he really went all out, huh?” Iwaizumi says in awe, no trace of his usual gruffness in his voice as he slowly reaches for Oikawa’s hand, stretched out high above their heads, and tugs it closer towards his face to inspect the diamonds glinting magnificently on Oikawa’s finger in the warm afternoon sunlight.

The ring is undeniably stunning, gleaming white gold with a large, gorgeous centerpiece, framed by a set of side stones the shape of teardrops, the upper half of the band encrusted in a dazzling river of smaller diamonds.

Oikawa blinks slowly, dry lips slightly agape. 

He can’t seem to tear his eyes away, finds himself strangely light-headed at the sight. 

The feeling’s been a near-constant companion, like he’s been walking on air ever since Ushijima silently took his hand into his own larger ones and slipped his promise onto Oikawa’s finger with such steadiness, such sincerity in his golden gaze, it shattered Oikawa’s heart into a million pretty shards.

Their jagged edges dig into his lungs, airways closing up around a throatful of blades at the distant memory of joking around loudly with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, false haughtiness layered on thick as he declared that he wasn’t sure he cared to ever get married, but certainly wouldn’t settle for anything simple — he was a real catch after all and the beauty of the ring should match up to that of its bearer.

(Nevermind the fact that Ushijima could have offered him a twisted metal scrap and he would have taken it without a beat of hesitation, anything for the illusion of tying Ushijima to himself a little more securely.)

Oikawa knows that Ushijima must have heard their careless laughter through the open balcony door.

He knows that it was a cruel thing to say, unnecessarily so, yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself from running his treacherous mouth.

He knows that at times, even after having been with Ushijima for over two years now, part of him still tries to push him away, put an end to this and run off to lick his wounds in self-inflicted solitude rather than wait and watch Ushijima go on his own terms. 

One day, Oikawa realizes that much, he will.

See through him.

Get tired of him.

_Go._

Oikawa shifts around on top of Iwaizumi’s comforter, restless, their hips lightly bumping together like they would during their weekly sleepovers in elementary school. The easiness, the familiarity of the touch grounds him.

It doesn’t prepare him for Iwaizumi’s next words, jolting him out of the painful jumble of his own thoughts.

“The guy’s completely smitten with you. I almost feel sorry for him,” his best friend teases, a lopsided grin on his face that all but screams: _I’m happy for you, you little shit._

“You better be good to him, Asskawa.”

Exhausted from the constant effort of forcing himself to at least keep it somewhat together, Oikawa closes his eyes and exhales, allows himself to let go. He feels an empty smile spread across his lips, just this side of manic, strained ears picking up on the rustling of the covers when Iwaizumi props himself up on his elbows in alarm, without doubt peering down at him with a mixture of disbelief and concern as old as their friendship.

“He looked happy when I said yes,” Oikawa recalls, tone eerily detached. “It’s funny, isn’t it? If I was a better person, more _selfless_ ,” he spits out the words like poison, bitterness coiling low in his stomach, “I would have told him no, for his sake.”

Ironically, the truth is that Oikawa has never imagined he would love a man the way he loves Ushijima Wakatoshi — so much so, it scares him half to death if he lets himself think about it too deeply.

Ushijima may not have caught on to it just yet, but for all his bullheadedness and social ineptitude, he deserves better than this, the moodswings, the insomnia, the obsession, the way Oikawa’s mind unpredictably spirals out of control and leaves nothing but ruin in its wake. More often than he likes to admit, Oikawa can barely figure out whether he wants to push or pull, or maybe that’s just another lie to help him through the night. 

At the end of the day, it all boils down to his gnawing desire to, just this once in his life, be _good enough._

For a long time Iwaizumi says nothing, then, quietly, voice strangled with something Oikawa recognizes as a tinge of sadness, “You’re still waiting for him to leave.”

When Oikawa doesn’t respond, just turns his head to stare at him with that same hollow twist to his mouth that wouldn’t have fooled anyone, a strong fist curls around the front of his sweater and yanks him forward violently. 

Iwaizumi’s face is flushed red, brows drawn together into a deep frown, lips pressed into a thin, tight line, not with rage, but with a flicker of helplessness that quickly flares up to be swallowed by an expression of sheer determination. Unable to meet his friend’s eyes, Oikawa’s gaze drops, strays downwards and zeroes in on the vein pulsing rapidly at the side of Iwaizumi’s neck.

_“That’s bullshit and you know it, Tooru—“_

Oikawa can guess what Iwaizumi is about to say. 

He doesn’t let him finish.

 _“How could he stand living with me if I can barely live with myself?”_ the words break out of him, choked and panicked and raw with how many times over he’s said them in his throbbing head. Anxiety seeps into his mind like acid until his breath comes out in quick, shallow bursts, every fiber of his being stretched too thin.

He lets the feeling overtake, twists the ring around his finger with quivering hands, back and forth and back again, as Iwaizumi stares at him, wide-eyed, worried.

Oikawa doesn’t care.

“He— He’s so _stupid_. He gives and gives and _gives_ and expects nothing in return. And God, did he make it hard to fall for him, but now that I have he’s so easy to love and _I_...“

His chest feels impossibly tight.

For a few horrifying minutes Oikawa thinks that this is it. That Iwaizumi is finally giving up on him and if _he_ does, it will only be a matter of time until Ushijima—

“I saw the way he looked at you,” Iwaizumi speaks into the silence, tone urgent, but gentle, willing Oikawa to quit hyperventilating for a second and really _listen,_ “when you threw a fit over the restaurant Makki and I chose for Matsun’s birthday dinner because _you_ happened to feel like yakiniku, which you knew none of us could afford at the time. Ushijima paid for all of us without a word of complaint because _he didn’t mind_. I’m not sure there’s anything he’d genuinely mind as long as it puts a smile on your stupid face. He loves you, you moron.”

Speechless, Oikawa opens and closes his mouth, searching Iwaizumi’s familiar green eyes for any sign of dishonesty. He doesn’t truly doubt Iwaizumi’s friendship, doesn’t doubt the sincerity of Ushijima’s feelings either, never has. It’s the implication that nothing he can say or do will grate on Ushijima’s nerves enough for him to eventually lose his patience with Oikawa that does him in. 

Clearly set on shutting Oikawa up before he can think of anything to say in protest, Iwaizumi clamps his hand firmly over Oikawa’s gaping mouth.

“Now pay attention because I’m only gonna say this once,” he continues sternly. It reminds Oikawa of those long nights back in highschool, Iwaizumi dragging him out of the gym by the collar of his jacket, grudgingly letting him piggyback-ride home when his knee was acting out after one too many hours of solo practice, all the while threatening to smack the living daylights out of him if he got himself hurt one more time. 

“He’s got plenty of reasons to love you, we all do. No one’s fucking asking you to be perfect, so stop beating yourself up about it already, you hear me? You’ve been at it since we were what, eleven? I’ve seen enough. You’re engaged. You’re gonna be an Olympian this summer, for Christ’s sake. This ends now.”

Oikawa gulps heavily. He’s given up on blinking back the tears burning in the corners of his eyes halfway through Iwaizumi’s oddly passionate speech.

Clinging to Iwaizumi’s neck like a child, face buried into the worn fabric of his hoodie, he cries himself to the point of complete exhaustion.

“Gross,” Iwaizumi mutters under his breath as Oikawa sobs and sniffles all over his clothes, but rests his chin on top of Oikawa’s head anyway, one hand rubbing up and down his back until, finally, he stops trembling quite as uncontrollably.

“ _You’re_ gross,” Oikawa shoots back weakly, delayed by a small fit of hiccups, all the while squeezing Iwaizumi’s waist with a familiar, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

—

“Are you awake?” Oikawa whispers against Ushijima’s temple on a peaceful Friday afternoon just about three weeks prior, gently brushing damp, dark locks out of his face to nip at the sensitive tip of his ear, tongue lightly tracing along the outer shell and teasing at his earlobe.

Ushijima’s hair is getting a bit long, he notices. He likes the way it flows through the gaps between his fingers as he combs them through the thick mass of it, rubs at all the sweet spots that make Ushijima’s toes curl with pleasure in his sleep.

Sometimes, when they lay like this, Ushijima’s larger body securely nestled between Oikawa’s hips, strong arms loosely thrown around his waist and head resting comfortably on Oikawa’s chest, Ushijima reminds him of a large, drowsy cat, heavy and cozy and _warm_ , so warm that every now and then it makes Oikawa’s eyelids droop entirely without his permission.

Ushijima responds with a low grunt, eyelids fluttering ever so slightly and brows knitting together where his frown was smoothed out by sleep just moments ago, soft and relaxed. It doesn’t seem like he’ll be roused from his nap anytime soon.

Thoroughly sore from hours of rigorous practice (or at least that’s what he likes to claim is at fault) Oikawa lets out an exasperated sigh of defeat. 

In reality, he has no one but himself to blame for the sweet ache slowly spreading through his lower half after quite literally jumping on every opportunity to rile Ushijima up with one too many lascivious looks, a jersey deliberately pulled up high over a display of rippling abs to wipe at his sweaty forehead, a particularly inviting arch of his back, which Oikawa knew would get him slammed up against the cold tile of the shower wall less than a minute after the last of their teammates had finally taken their leave, Ushijima making him take his cock so well Oikawa was barely conscious by the end of it. 

He spent the better part of their commute home lamenting under his breath about the stinging bruises Ushijima’s greedy hands had left on his thighs and ass, the way Ushijima hadn’t allowed him to bite his neck even once because the last time Oikawa had ravaged him to his heart’s content they’d gotten all sorts of sidelong glances in the morning (the sort that had Ushijima squirming and Oikawa smirking like the cat that got the canary). _Anything_ to distract from the fact that today Oikawa’s sets had been less than stellar. 

For reasons he’d rather not inspect too closely, his fingers had lacked their usual steadiness, his mind been uncharacteristically restless to the point of indecisiveness when he knows as well as the next guy that his acceptance into the national team had largely been thanks to his creativity, quick wit and, not least, his unique ability to regulate and inspire the mood of an entire group. 

At Oikawa’s best, each player’s individual talents will bloom under his imperturbable guidance as he pulls the team’s every string, sharp and reliable not only but especially in a crisis. 

At his worst, most high-strung, as it turned out earlier this morning, they will come crashing straight to the ground with him, weighed down by the thunder rolling inside Oikawa’s head, drowning out any other sound.

If Ushijima had noticed the unimpressed twist to their coach’s lips upon pulling Oikawa to the side towards the end of practice, he had surprisingly been tactful enough not to bring it up.

Or so Oikawa thought until—

“You are thinking too loudly,” Ushijima rumbles quietly, voice rough with sleep, but lacking none of its usual firmness. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, blindly pushing up Oikawa’s sweater to press a soothing kiss to his exposed belly button while idly palming at Oikawa’s hips, kneading and caressing, his touches never ceasing even after some of the built-up tension has finally left Oikawa’s muscles.

In moments like this Oikawa feels foolish, foolish for ever having taken Ushijima’s introverted nature for nothing but simple-mindedness.

“We both know that something was off today. I did not push you for answers even though I wanted to. I hoped you would tell me on your own time.”

Oikawa stiffens at the words and more so at the loudness of what has been left unspoken, Ushijima’s quiet wish to be trusted enough for Oikawa to let him in, allow him to share his burden. 

Already, his mind is racing with feeble excuses and half-baked diversions.

Sensing Oikawa’s distress, Ushijima’s calming ministrations resume like clockwork, one strong, skilled hand running up Oikawa’s tingling spine underneath his clothes, then massaging its way back down, tenderly, as he’s patiently waiting for Oikawa to collect his conflicting thoughts.

It’s not fair, Oikawa thinks helplessly, how even Ushijima’s silence is gentle, enveloping him like the comfort of a warm, cozy blanket.

It would be so easy to pretend that it was just the pressure, the kind of pressure that an athlete like Ushijima couldn’t possibly feel nor understand even with the Olympics looming above them like storm clouds threatening to swallow Oikawa whole, a culmination of his lifelong dreams and most paralyzing fears, but that’s not all there is to it. 

Not anymore.

“It’s stupid, I—“ Oikawa murmurs, carefully avoids Ushijima’s gaze as if the growing dejection in his eyes would somehow give him away.

“If it troubles you, it is not stupid to me. Tooru, you ought to know me better than this.”

He watches Ushijima pull himself into an upright position, left leg folded under. His hair still hasn’t fully dried from their shower back at the gym, all frizz and tousled strands after Oikawa had his way with it.

“Would you like to assist me with repotting the plants out on the balcony?” Ushijima suggests, visibly stifling a yawn. “I am going to buy a new batch of gardenias tomorrow morning and would prefer to have everything set up in advance. It may take your mind off whatever is bothering you if you prefer not to talk about it.”

Oikawa wishes he could hate him for it, the way he spares him the discomfort of having to wiggle his way out of a conversation he doesn’t feel quite prepared to have.

Predictably, he makes a face at Ushijima, nose scrunched up in disgust at the idea of spending the rest of the night scrubbing soil from underneath his fingernails,

“Which ones are the gardenias again?” he asks warily as he trails behind Ushijima, who crouches down in front of the cabinet he uses to store away his gardening supplies, revealing neatly organized boxes labelled _seeds_ and _fertilizer_ , a row of hooks holding an assortment of small shovels, rakes, gardening forks and pruning shears that Oikawa can’t help thinking look ridiculous in Ushijima’s enormous hands, piles of gloves and stacks of flower pots in all shapes and sizes.

Ushijima glances up at him, suspicious in the face of Oikawa’s tentative interest. 

It’s no secret that Oikawa doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. On top of that (and to Oikawa’s eternal dismay), his so-called best friend has made a habit of digging up old stories from their childhood, informing Ushijima in horrifying detail about their various bug catching escapades that usually ended with Oikawa cowering in fear as Iwaizumi proudly dangled the latest addition to his collection of monstrosities in Oikawa’s blanched, tear-streaked face.

“The white flowers over there in the corner. You said they smelled nice,” Ushijima eventually explains before turning his attention back to the task at hand, picking out and handing Oikawa a pair of blue rubber gloves that look several sizes too big. They will have to do.

“You’re not wearing any,” Oikawa points out with a nod in the direction of Ushijima’s bare hands as they step out into the cool evening air.

“The plants we will be working with do not have thorns. I do not mind touching them. You do.”

There is no accusation in his voice, no judgement. It makes Oikawa’s heart swell uncontrollably, spilling over with affection and gratitude that he compulsively covers up with a teasing smile.

 _“So manly,”_ he drawls, sitting cross-legged against the wall to watch Ushijima lay out a handful of tools and empty pots on the balcony floor. When Ushijima glances up at him, Oikawa is met with a blank stare that makes him question whether Ushijima heard any of the fond sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Chances are he didn’t. Oikawa can’t say he minds either way.

They work in comfortable silence, Ushijima taking the lead, Oikawa dutifully following his instructions, observing those expert hands treat each leaf and root with gentle care and trying his hardest to imitate the motions. Somehow, after nearly thirty minutes free of any remarkable incidents, he manages to get a few crumbs of soil inside of his gloves anyway. He groans at the unwelcome sensation and pulls them off, gingerly picks them up by the fingertips and holds them at a distance to shake out the dirt.

“Can I come to the nursery with you tomorrow?” Oikawa asks, hopes to God it sounds casual. 

Too apprehensive to put the gloves back on and continue shoveling, he ends up dropping them where he stands and starts nibbling on his bottom lip, bending doen to drape himself over the broad expanse of Ushijima’s back, all hard, solid muscle. His arms sneak around his neck from behind, effectively locking him into place.

And there it is, Oikawa notes distantly, ice-cold dread washing over him with the force of a tidal wave holding his head underwater, the strange evasiveness in Ushijima’s gaze before he’ll shrug on his jacket and drop off the face of the earth for hours, leaving Oikawa with a burning heart and flimsy explanations. 

Much unlike Oikawa, Ushijima has never been a good actor. 

Oikawa’s chest tightens as he watches him struggle, recognizes how much merely deflecting Oikawa’s question takes out of him. It’s the closest Ushijima will ever get to speaking a lie.

“You would get bored,” he finally says, still keeping his eyes carefully trained on his earth-stained hands while lowering a small bush of pink flowers down into its new home. “The one time you insisted on coming along you would not stop whining and calling me an old man ten minutes into the trip.”

No matter how much he hates seeing Ushijima backed into a corner, expression slowly closing off, Oikawa isn’t ready to give up on this just yet.

“I’ll behave this time,” he singsongs, grazing his lips across the delicate skin of Ushijima’s throat. “I promise?”

Knowing full well that Ushijima will tell him off for it later, he sinks his teeth in deep, finds himself barely able to suppress a shameful growl at the thought of the havoc he wreaked upon Ushijima’s chest and back this past week alone, those wide shoulders and powerful thighs, Oikawa’s latest marks well-hidden under too many layers of fabric.

“Tooru…” Ushijima sighs against the crown of his head, but holds perfectly still for Oikawa to lick at the bruise that’s beginning to bloom right above his collarbone.

And that’s that.

Tomorrow’s plans aren’t brought up again, not over dinner or when Ushijima slowly massages generous amounts of lotion into Oikawa’s hands, palms rough from excessive serving practice and, as Oikawa stubbornly claims, _gardening_.

They don’t talk about Ushijima’s recent unrelenting, if gentle refusal to let Oikawa tag along on simple errands or the new, uncharacteristically frequent outings with nameless friends, yet it hangs heavily in the air between them and Oikawa finds it hard to breathe.

 _Two years_ , he counts frantically, the weight of Ushijima’s bare leg, thrown over his own as they curl into each other for the night, the only thing that keeps him from crawling out of his skin with anguish.

That’s two years longer than he thought they’d have until, finally, someone better would come along.

—

The next morning, Oikawa is startled out of his sleep with a groan, blearily squinting at the display of Ushijima’s alarm clock (no amount of arguing or judgemental glares have been able to convince Ushijima to just use the one pre-installed on his phone like a civilized person), red glowing digits announcing that it’s no later than 8:30 A.M. 

On a _Saturday_.

He’s on the verge of getting carried away by a barrage of murderous thoughts when he feels the bulk of Ushijima’s body press him deeper into the mattress, rolling half on top of him to reach the nightstand and switch off the offensive beeping sound.

Instinctively, Oikawa’s eyes snap shut at the sensation of Ushijima’s warm breath tickling against the nape of his neck, quickly followed by a trail of soft butterfly kisses all the way up to his hairline and beyond. 

It’s sweet, unbearably sweet, and Oikawa longs for nothing more than to turn over and kiss him deeply until he has Ushijima melting away under his touch, forget about vague plans and gardenias and potential suitors that aren’t Oikawa. He isn’t above spreading his legs to keep Ushijima exactly where he wants him to be — with Oikawa, always with Oikawa. 

Unfortunately, he isn’t above tearing somebody’s throat out either.

Still caught in a hazy state somewhere between dream and consciousness, Oikawa finds it compellingly easy to feign already having drifted back to sleep. While he’s never had trouble getting out of bed at the crack of dawn for early morning practice, he’s known to be a chronic late riser on the weekends. If Ushijima’s theory is to be believed that’s when his body demands the much-needed rest it’s been robbed of for the past five days by sheer force. Oikawa denies this, just for the sake of it.

Either way, Ushijima seems to fall for his act — of course he does, eventually releasing Oikawa from his embrace with one last lingering caress down his side.

 _“I will be back soon,_ ” he whispers earnestly into Oikawa’s ear and part of Oikawa wants to slap him a little (affectionately so) for being so goddamn serious all the time.

The bed springs creak faintly when Ushijima swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and leaves Oikawa behind in the sheets that suddenly feel chillingly cold.

Face buried in Ushijima’s pillow, Oikawa catches himself dozing off repeatedly as the minutes tick by and Ushijima, always upsettingly chivalrous, shuffles around the room on his tiptoes, slides the closet door shut with a soft _click_ once he’s pulled out his clothes and nearly soundlessly adjusts the curtains so the sun won’t shine into Oikawa’s face once he wakes up.

Finally, after what’s felt like a small eternity, the front door closes and silence falls over the apartment, so absolute it makes Oikawa’s skin prickle. 

He throws back the blanket, hardly a replacement for Ushijima smoldering against him like a human furnace, then drags himself into the bathroom for a quick shower, eyes darting back to his phone every other minute or so to check the time while dabbing foundation on the prominent rings under his eyes in front of the mirror.

Realistically, picking up the flowers shouldn’t take Ushijima longer than an hour. He isn’t the type to dawdle or browse; in fact, Oikawa is certain Ushijima views trips to the store as an unfortunate necessity, rather than a source of enjoyment. 

(To his credit, he does indulge _Oikawa’s_ every whim, dutifully carries his shopping bags and lets Oikawa kiss him breathless in the changing rooms of fancy boutiques or the volleyball section of the Nike Store without any genuine resistance.)

When he moves on to the kitchen to discover the note awaiting him in Ushijima’s plain, yet impeccable handwriting, he doesn’t suspect just how far off the mark his prediction really was. Oikawa plucks the paper from where it’s taped to the fridge, carefully smoothing it over with the tip of his thumb.

_Tooru,_

_I got up early in the hope that by the time I will return you may be awake to start into the day together. Please do not worry about breakfast. I will take care of it as soon as I make it home._

_Love, Wakatoshi_

He tilts his head back ever so slightly, takes a deep breath, eyes closed and the corners of his mouth twitching up into a wobbly smile. 

It’s hard to doubt Ushijima’s sincerity, the quiet urgency of his touch, to doubt that Ushijima still feels this way about him now. Imagining another man stealing him away one day, on the other hand, someone less capricious, less difficult, less twisted, but honest, talented and stable, seems frighteningly much easier.

The thought alone makes Oikawa feel like he’s going to be ill.

For the lack of anything better to do he starts pacing the apartment like a caged lion, picking up around the house and putting the kettle on to make some tea, which he almost immediately forgets about in favor of collecting an armful of stray volleyballs that he dumps into the basket by the coat closet. By the time he hears the angry hissing and spitting of the water, coming from the general direction of the stove, it’s too late and all he can do is scrub the burner clean with an old magic eraser he finds in the cabinet under the sink.

At fifteen minutes past eleven, Oikawa is ready to tear his hair out with unchecked paranoia, wondering if today is the day after all, if Ushijima will walk through the door with some handsome stranger in tow, bringing him milk bread and coffee and finally letting him down gently. 

He’s been waiting for the moment to arrive ever since the very night Ushijima confessed, that familiar stoic expression turning into one of a fierce determination to make Oikawa _understand_. 

The problem is that Oikawa does. He understands, probably better than anyone, just how easy it is to fall for a charming smile and a pretty face, that no one ever seems to want to keep him once they see him for who he truly is, demons and all.

Unable to focus on the game recording in front of him, he slams his laptop shut violently, cutting off the never ceasing stream of commentary sounding from the speakers mid-match. 

What’s the point anyway? 

Leading Japan to victory at the Summer Games is meant to be the pinnacle of their careers. At this rate, it doesn’t look like Oikawa can get it together for long enough to make it into the starting line-up as he watches himself fall further and further behind his competition. And who the hell knows if there _will_ be a next time four years from now with his old nemesis hard on his heels, aiming for Oikawa’s hard-earned position by Ushijima’s side—

“Tooru?” the sound of his name breaks through the high-pitched ringing in his ears the moment Oikawa, flying into a frenzied, helpless rage, shoots out of his seat and hurls his glass of orange juice across the table where it shatters loudly against the kitchen wall.

For a good minute, Oikawa simply stares.

Then, reminded of the voice calling out to him from a distance, his gaze flickers around the room, searching, until it finally lands on the window he opened not too long ago to let the fresh air clear his mind.

Oikawa takes a step forward, peering outside.

Down on the sidewalk stands Ushijima, a large, potted gardenia tree clutched to his chest. Three others sit lined up against the wall in the shade thrown by the building and there’s crumbs of soil scattered all over Ushijima’s fern green sweater. Concerned, golden eyes scan Oikawa’s face for any sign of alarm, so intently it makes him laugh a little. 

On the court Ushijima’s raw power and rather imposing build may make grown men break a sweat on the other side of the net. In private, however…

“I’m _fine_ ,” Oikawa shouts, accompanied by a dramatic roll of his eyes for good measure. He folds his arms on the window sill, purposefully leans forward until a good portion of his body is out of the window and watches Ushijima’s eyebrows furrow with disapproval.

Before he can launch into yet another speech about recklessness and such, Oikawa adds, “I tripped and dropped my drink, don’t hurt your head worrying about it. Now, if you’re done freaking out, can you, I don’t know, hurry up and come inside?”

“Okay,” Ushijima says gravely, head slightly tilted to the side.

Oikawa covers his eyes with an incredulous snort.

“Will you please help me carry these up the stairs?” Ushijima asks, unbothered, after a heartbeat or two, gesturing towards the row of bushy plants by his feet without paying Oikawa’s antics any mind.

Together they haul the first load of gardenias up to the third floor landing, where Ushijima agrees to Oikawa’s petulant request to take a quick breather, cupping his chin and pulling him in for a chaste good morning kiss that leaves Oikawa with the hint of a content smile on his lips.

“Why did you have to buy so _many_?” Oikawa groans as they eventually make their way back down the stairs, absently plucking a stray leaf off Ushijima’s shoulder.

“They’re the only flowers you’ve shown even a small interest in,” Ushijima responds in a tone that implies the answer was obvious. 

It sends a sting of guilt through Oikawa’s chest.

“I do like roses, you know,” he says breezily to cover up how entirely flustered he feels by Ushijima’s display of unconcealed devotion. Even after years of constant exposure, he isn’t sure if he will ever really get used to it.

At that, Ushijima visibly perks up. 

Oikawa knows that even though it isn’t in Ushijima’s nature to get excited too easily, his personality isn’t anywhere near as bland as Oikawa used to believe. Over time he’s found there _is_ plenty of emotion hidden underneath that impassive surface, he’d just never bothered to learn how to read the signs.

Right now, Oikawa can tell by the eager gleam in those bright olive eyes, Ushijima’s mind is already back at the nursery, critically analyzing different types of rose bushes.

“ _Oh, no._ No, no, no, for the love of God, Wakatoshi—“

As loath as he is to turn Ushijima’s rare display of open enthusiasm into one of quiet disappointment, they’ll have to be realistic here.

“Where would they even go?” he almost pleads, “There’s no space in this small apartment. Maybe when we have an actual garden to fill?”

The words pour from his lips like a torrent before Oikawa’s brain-to-mouth filter has any chance to kick in and make him swallow them back down. In front of him, Ushijima stops in his tracks, crouching on the sidewalk with his hands reaching for one of the last couple of flowerpots. They remain suspended in midair, the expression on Ushijima’s face carefully neutral.

“Is that something you would want with me?”

He’s fucked up. 

Oikawa knows he’s fucked up, admitting so thoughtlessly that _yes_ , _he_ _wants_ _this_ , wants Ushijima to stay, wants this to last, to be something they can build on. That he’s been playing it all out in his head. 

It will only end up making him seem more pathetic when, sooner or later, Ushijima will walk away, needing something more than air and love, more than what Oikawa has to offer. 

“I— I don’t know, I haven’t thought about it? I just—“ Oikawa stammers in a clumsy attempt at damage control, feeling the color drain from his face as Ushijima looks away with a quiet, “I see,” and a curt nod.

Their short second trip back upstairs is silent. Ushijima doesn’t mention Oikawa’s slip-up again, but eyes the mess of juice and shards by the wall for a long minute that Oikawa spends wracking his brain for a way to explain how exactly he’s supposed to have dropped his drink _into_ the wall, before slowly turning away to move the plants to the balcony. 

As far as Oikawa can tell, Ushijima seems a little more withdrawn than usual, but not necessarily bewildered or upset, which is more than he can say for himself.

“I am going to get coffee and croissants from the bakery at the corner. Would you mind setting the table?” Ushijima calls out to him from the bedroom, voice muffled by the dirty sweater he must be in the middle of pulling over his head.

In a moment of weakness, Oikawa watches his fingers inch towards Ushijima’s phone on the dinner table, cringing at the light jingle of the crow charm he gifted to Ushijima as a joke (the cruel kind) during their first week of university.

“Sure,” he shouts distractedly, quickly glances over at the hallway and presses the home button to be greeted with the sight of no other than himself, posing in his then-new Team Japan jersey and throwing up a peace sign, as well as a distinct lack of notifications.

He feels relieved, incredibly relieved and maybe a little stupid, which he won’t admit, not even to himself. 

As firmly as his anxieties have held him in his grip whenever Ushijima shut him out or dodged another one of his probing questions these past couple weeks, deep down Oikawa knows that if Ushijima already had a romantic interest in anyone else, he wouldn’t draw this out, wouldn’t lead Oikawa on, not even out of a misguided attempt at protecting Oikawa’s feelings. 

The screen dims, then turns completely black, snapping Oikawa out of his trance not a second too soon. When Ushijima approaches him from behind and bluntly cages him in against the table, one large hand grabbing at his ass while the other is busy whirling him around in his arms, Oikawa’s heart fills with regret. 

_I’m going insane_ , he thinks, delirious with Ushijima’s ravishing kisses, deep and wet and boiling over with the intensity of Ushijima’s affection that Oikawa doesn’t know he did anything to deserve, but somehow holds anyway.

(Is peeking at your boyfriend’s lock screen considered a breach of trust? It’s not like he stooped as low as to actually snoop through Ushijima’s messages—)

“In bed this morning I wanted to…” Ushijima trails off, sighing heavily into Oikawa’s mouth as thick fingers slip underneath his waistband and in between his cheeks, parting them just enough to tease against the tender rim of his hole.

The mere implication has Oikawa keening, gaze clouding over with thoughts of Ushijima spoiling him rotten, fat cock splitting him open with slow strokes, lazy and tender.

“You should have,” he pants, provocatively bites at Ushijima’s lips, “Should have done me in my sleep, slowly…”

“You looked so peaceful, I could not bring myself to disturb you.”

“Disturb me now, then.”

Breakfast forgotten for the time being, Oikawa lets Ushijima manhandle him up onto the table top with a broken moan falling from his red, kiss-bruised mouth, opening his legs, hands blindly tugging at Ushijima’s fly.

If Ushijima offers to make him forget, make his mind go blank for even just a few precious moments, Oikawa won’t make him ask twice. His head lolls to the side, slick lips hanging open wide as Ushijima finally enters him and he cries out to him in pleasure, trembling fingers tangling with Ushijima’s, squeezing his hand with each punched-out _I love you_ Ushijima’s cock works out of him.

 _Not today_ , Oikawa thinks feverishly at the now distant memory of his rapid, premature descent into despair less than an hour ago, every inch of his body singing at their closeness, the sheer intimacy of Ushijima’s love making rattling him to the core.

_Today he’s mine._

—

Hazel eyes dangerously narrowed into slits, breath coming out in short, heavy pants, Oikawa takes a few seconds longer than strictly necessary sizing up Ushijima’s imposing form at the opposite end of the court, every muscle in those massive thighs pulled taut. Even from a distance the bruises blooming all across Ushijima’s forearms, red and swollen from the ferocity of Oikawa’s ruthless assault, are impossible to miss.

He tosses the ball high above his head, air rushing into his burning lungs after a deep, calculated breath, and watches it rotate against a backdrop of glaring headlights as he hurls his body into another brutal power serve.

Visibly bracing himself, yet without any sign of fear or reluctance, Ushijima darts to the side, bends his padded knees and receives the ball _just so_ , lips pressed together tightly upon impact.

Ushijima’s receiving has become more steady over the past few years, more natural, but most importantly more flexible with each one of Oikawa’s serves forcing him to move and adapt at a split second’s notice. His growth is blatantly obvious, polishing an already solid skill into a serious threat, molding Ushijima into an even more well-rounded player.

As Oikawa has been praised for on countless occasions over the span of his professional career, he has the gift to help others unlock their full potential. 

_Then why,_ he thinks with a taste of bitterness clinging to the back of his throat, aching fingers curling into fists by his sides, _is it that I’m the only one who isn’t improving?_

 _Because_ **_he_ ** _is a genius_ , a familiar voice sneers inside his head, dark and mocking, _and clearly you’re not._

Oikawa feels his entire body bristle at the mental image of Kageyama, fresh out of college and back to haunt him like a particularly persistent curse, practicing his own jump serves on the neighboring court just a couple days ago — still lacking Oikawa’s cruel power and pinpoint accuracy, but slightly less predictable than they once were. 

For a terrible minute his self-restraint slips away from him and he imagines the sound of Kageyama’s knuckles crunching under his shoe, one by one, the look of quiet revulsion in Ushijima’s eyes, Iwaizumi’s tired chiding, disappointed, but not surprised.

Too caught up in the fast downward spiral of his shameful thoughts, Oikawa doesn’t notice Ushijima approach until he steps directly into his space, knees casually bumping into Oikawa’s own, a cold water bottle thrust into his trembling hands, delivered with a quiet frown, concern pooling in the piercing olive of Ushijima’s gaze. It’s laced with something knowing, something helpless that he’s seen before, back in school when he’d fly off the handle over and over for Iwaizumi to pick up the pieces.

 _Fix me,_ Oikawa pleads silently, letting his head drop forward to rest against Ushijima’s shoulder.

“Take me home,” he says, lips brushing the crook of his partner’s neck with each word and he feels Ushijima shiver under his touch.

“About that...” Ushijima begins, hesitates for a moment, but Oikawa already knows. 

He knows where this is going with the chilling certainty of too many evenings spent alone, too many hours spent analyzing the pattern.

“Tendou asked to catch up over a drink or two.”

And it’s not that Oikawa hasn’t been trying — he really has. He would keep telling himself that this didn’t mean anything, reminding himself that it was okay until someday he’d believe it if he wasn’t so acutely aware of the fact that Ushijima doesn’t drink, not to mention that there can’t be a whole lot to catch up on with a friend Ushijima is supposed to have seen only a couple days ago.

“Fine, I’ll come,” Oikawa chirps, flashing a smile so bright and false it makes his cheeks go numb with the effort of it.

Ushijima squirms ever so slightly under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. 

“You know how he is. He isn’t necessarily what you would call the social type.”

“Last time I checked, neither were you,” Oikawa deadpans as his grin morphs into a petty scowl that, even on a face like Oikawa’s, can’t make for a pretty sight.

“Tooru, please… don’t be like this—“ 

He doesn’t wait to hear what else Ushijima may come up with tonight. Before he gets to finish scrambling for another terrible excuse, Oikawa has long dropped his untouched water bottle and turned on his heel, sharply, his step filled with anger — at Ushijima, at himself for throwing a tantrum like a bratty child.

Picking up the dozens of volleyballs they went through tonight, he realizes that Ushijima must have received just under two thirds of his serves. The last time they had gone at it, it had barely been over a half.

In a fit of wounded pride, he chucks the closest ball into the cart hard enough to make it rattle, the sound of impact echoing in the dead quiet of the gymnasium.

“Don’t you have places to be?” he spits without as much as looking over his shoulder, feeling his aura turn downright hostile when all he really wants to do is ask for Ushijima to stay. _“What the hell are you waiting for?”_

Ushijima hesitates, expression torn, but it’s not enough.

“I can tell him no...” doesn’t hold up to how badly Oikawa wants Ushijima to _choose_ him over and whoever Ushijima may be using Tendou as a cover for.

“Can you now?” he mocks, every syllable saturated with sarcasm, an act of indifference that’s meant to inflict pain.

His question is met with silence, then the noise of his own blood pulsing in his ears as he’s seized by immediate regret. 

“Wakatoshi?” he whispers, voice pathetically small.

By the time Oikawa dares to glance behind his back, he finds himself standing in the center of the gymnasium, surrounded by a handful of stray volleyballs, alone.

—

The irony of the situation isn’t lost on Oikawa when, a little over three hours and an eerily quiet meltdown later, he steps through the entrance to their shared apartment to the sight of Ushijima’s shoes and trainers, neatly lined up in the genkan. 

It’s impossible to tell how much sooner Ushijima has made it home, but the smell of Mapo Tofu — Oikawa’s favorite homemade meal — wafting into the hallway through the gap under the kitchen door indicates that there must have been enough time to prepare dinner while Oikawa spent the evening running himself ragged, right knee throbbing so badly that by the end of it he’d had half a mind to swallow down his pride and call Ushijima. 

It wouldn’t have been the first time for Ushijima to lay with him until he felt like he could stand back up without his legs giving out from under him, warm, expert hands patiently massaging the tension from his cramping muscles, skilled fingers digging into his skin in all the right places, almost religiously studying his body language and oh-so-carefully adjusting the pressure, calmly reassuring Oikawa that no, everything wasn’t ruined and yes, he’d be back on his feet in no time if only he started taking care of himself better.

Tonight he’d curled up on the ground by himself, gaze unfocussed as he’d stared off into space — for how long he doesn’t quite remember, just that the shadows on the walls had grown longer, in tandem with the emptiness spreading into every nook, every crevice of his being.

He’s come to understand sometime around his final year of middle school that it isn’t the noise he ought to fear, the sudden bouts of temper or the tears. It’s when silence settles over his mind, drowning out any other sound, that Oikawa becomes afraid of the darkness lurking inside his own head.

Exhausted from his long day of practice and still feeling a bit shaky, his hands scrabble for purchase on the wall to keep his balance while he tugs off his shoes, unceremoniously dropping them next to his gym bag, his mind elsewhere, grasping for something to say to Ushijima that won’t quickly be exposed as an obvious lie.

Oikawa hesitantly pokes his head into the kitchen and finds it vacant, a single frying pan sitting on the stove with the steamy glass lid tightly closed, a small pile of cooking utensils drying in the dish drainer next to the sink. 

Turning around to check the bedroom (maybe, Oikawa thinks miserably, Ushijima has grown weary of waiting), he jumps at the sound of heavy footsteps further down the hallway. The bathroom door has been left slightly ajar, the air feeling hot and damp on Oikawa’s bare forearms when he slips inside, met with the sight of Ushijima’s hulking form kneeling in front of the bathtub, fingers gliding through the rising water.

There’s a tuft of foam stuck to his sleeve, another smaller one to his elbow and Oikawa catches himself reaching out for it. He ends up on the floor next to Ushijima, leaning in until their shoulders bump together, back to the tub, knees drawn up close to his chest, subconsciously nuzzling his nose into the worn fabric of Ushijima’s shirt in search of a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, remnants of another man’s cologne that, somewhere far in the back of his mind, he knows he won’t find.

“Are you taking a bath?” he murmurs ruefully as he counts the fading bite marks littering Ushijima’s lower back where his shirt rides up just enough to reveal a strip of smooth, tan skin.

“I ran it for you in the hope that you may find it relaxing. You must be sore,” Ushijima answers and Oikawa doesn’t resist when he pulls him up by his forearms, a light kiss breathed on the inside of Oikawa’s wrist, then gives him space to take off his clothes. Oikawa undresses slowly, without a word, all the while stealing quick glances at Ushijima, who lingers close by the tub, solemnly re-adjusting the same pile of towels until, finally, Oikawa manages to safely lower himself into the steaming water.

It takes him until Ushijima is halfway out the door to muster the courage to speak up again.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, tone a little less breezy than he hoped it would come out, “and with all those clothes on.”

Even though they aren’t exactly fighting, Ushijima doesn’t seem confident to let down his guard just yet. 

“I did not expect to be invited to join,” he says carefully, keeps his back turned to Oikawa, expression hidden from view, and Oikawa can see the way he braces himself for a malicious retort, an old, childish weakness of character that has followed Oikawa into his mid-twenties, occasionally raising its ugly head when he lets himself get carried away.

Then, “I am sorry to have upset you earlier. It was not my intention to make you feel excluded.” 

Oikawa sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, rushing out the words before his pridefulness can get the better of him once again.

“I’m sorry too. I didn’t need to be so vicious about it.”

The admission, difficult as it may have been, feels strangely freeing. He shoots Ushijima a sheepish, lop-sided smile, cheeks glowing with a faint dusting of pink and scoots towards the middle of the tub to make room for Ushijima. Fortunately, Ushijima seems to get the hint, strips out of his mind-bogglingly tight t-shirt and peels his socks and sweatpants off to climb in behind Oikawa, foamy water sloshing all over the edges and onto the tiles as he settles down. 

Oikawa sighs contentedly, relishes the sensation of his naked body slipping against Ushijima’s, skin on skin, eyes falling closed, back pressed flush against Ushijima’s sculpted chest and stomach. After a minute passes, maybe two — he can’t be so sure, he slides his hand up Ushijima’s thigh and squeezes lightly, turns his head until their lips collide in a tender kiss. Ushijima hums into his mouth, slowly parting it with his tongue, teasing him with sweet, little licks that make Oikawa’s body shake with laughter every time he eagerly falls for the same trick all over again. 

“You,” Oikawa snorts, grabbing Ushijima by the jaw and forcing him down for a proper kiss, “are the _worst.”_

“That wasn’t what you said when—“

“I _am_ going to bite your dick off, you bastard,” he growls as he spins around and playfully jabs his finger into Ushijima’s sternum with a warning glare.

“Now, where’s the sponge? You get to scrub my back for that comment.”

As if he doesn’t know perfectly well that Ushijima would have done so anyway.

—

_“Why can’t I come with you?”_ Oikawa shouts at Ushijima’s back five days later, tone on the verge of hysterical, pupils dilated with anger, hardly covering up the raw hurt written all over his flushed face as he watches Ushijima sling his gym bag over his shoulder.

He can still taste Ushijima’s seed on his tongue, thick and heady, feel the stretch of his throat around his overwhelming length and the sticky mess in his own pants, see the shameful tears pricking at the corners of Ushijima’s eyes when he asked him to slap his cock and make him beg for Oikawa’s mouth.

“Work for it,” Oikawa breathed hotly against the sensitive skin behind Ushijima’s balls, relishing the raspiness of Ushijima’s moans, his own voice exuding unwavering authority.

Sleepy and disoriented, Ushijima arched his back into a gorgeous curve to put himself on proper display, every muscle in his powerful body flexing for Oikawa’s enjoyment, cock sloppily leaking onto his abs.

It was obscene, the sight of him, eyes rolling back into his head as Oikawa’s fingers cracked across his swelling erection, once, twice, eliciting strings of wanton gasps and deep, strangled sounds before hungrily sucking him back into the wet heat between his lips to rile him up further, keep him on the maddening edge of release.

A couple hours ago, there had been reverence in Ushijima’s darkening gaze, worship, adoration so boundless and sincere Oikawa had barely been able to comprehend his luck of finding himself at the receiving end of it.

Now Ushijima won’t look at him at all, nervously slipping on his sneakers as if he can’t get away from him fast enough.

“It is difficult to focus on my workout with you prancing around the place in those tiny shorts…” he mutters with his hand reaching for the doorknob and a blush of pink crawling up his neck, indicating that at the very least there must be _some_ truth to it.

“I won’t be long.”

With that Ushijima straightens himself up and takes a long, deep breath, clearly gathering his courage — what for shall remain a mystery.

Oikawa doesn’t bother asking, too busy suppressing the memory of watching Ushijima disappear down the street from their kitchen window just yesterday. He was supposed to take a left, then walk towards the station around the corner and ride the train the rest of the way to the gym they’d ended up choosing not least because of its proximity to the metro and the convenience of a fast connection.

Today he spares himself the pang of aimless jealousy that had stabbed through his chest the first time he caught him turning right.

Around noon, when Ushijima returns with lunch and a bag full of sweaty clothes and towels, Oikawa wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him down to capture his lips, welcoming him with a slow kiss that feels like goodbye.

—

“Oikawa!” their coach’s voice, sharp with cold, barely repressed anger, carries across the court in warning.

He knew that this time he royally fucked up the moment he grabbed one of their left wing spikers by the front of his sweat-soaked jersey and lifted him up an inch off the ground, pretty face contorted into a vicious snarl, demanding an explanation for what must have been Amano’s fourth flubbed spike of the day (mind you, they’d only transitioned from an extensive warm-up to three on three drills about 20 minutes ago).

 _“Back the fuck off,”_ Amano grits out through his teeth, fingers wrapping around Oikawa’s forearm in a challenging grip, “I refuse to play the scapegoat for _you_ not having your head in the game. Your signals have been sloppy all morning.”

A vein starts pulsing rapidly at Oikawa’s temple at the open insult. He feels the entire team’s eyes on them, wide and shocked, some of their younger players flinching back with evident discomfort.

Amano leans down towards him as much as his precarious position allows, strains his neck until their foreheads are almost touching. Despite a distinct sense of foreboding coiling deep in his gut, Oikawa refuses to back down (to a newcomer two years his junior, to anyone).

“I don’t see the ace rushing to your defense, Oikawa?” he whispers tauntingly, a cruel smirk combined with the mention of his partner’s name setting off alarm bells in his head.

“Why’s that, I wonder. You think he found himself another whore to roll over and spread his legs for him?”

The words have barely left Amano’s mouth as Oikawa’s vision begins to stain red and he feels himself flying into a white hot frenzy. He releases his grip and drops the boy back onto his feet like he’s been burned, hovering over Amano’s cowering figure where he stumbled to the ground, eyes squeezed shut in fearful anticipation of Oikawa to take a swing at him.

Later Oikawa will realize in horror that he would have. 

Within the span of a second, he would have smashed the guys face in, jeopardized his dreams, his career and whatever sliver of a chance he may have had with Ushijima if it wasn’t for the gentle touch to the small of his back, thumb and pointer finger pressing into his dimples through his shirt, bringing him back down to Earth.

Oikawa slumps back against the solid plane of Ushijima’s chest, instantly lets his eyelids flutter shut. 

Enveloped by blissful darkness, he focuses his attention on Ushijima’s slow, controlled breathing, mimicking the rhythm the way they’ve practiced a hundred times over in the safety of their bedroom, roused from their sleep by another one of Oikawa’s ever recurring nightmares.

Images of his balled fist, smaller at the time, yet more than capable of inflicting injury, hurtling towards an unsuspecting, much younger Kageyama’s head keep playing over and over before his mind’s eye, Kageyama and Amano’s faces blurring into one. 

Scoldingly, Ushijima’s fingers dig deeper.

“We have a minute until Coach will finish chewing out Amano for provoking you. Two if we are lucky,” Ushijima whispers against the crown of Oikawa’s head with impossible calmness, willing Oikawa to relax under his ministrations. “I don’t know what he said to you but you need to get a hold of yourself. Breathe for me.”

So Oikawa does.

There was a time when he would rather have swallowed a sack of needles than followed Ushijima’s advice. He’d have raged at the audacity, told him his strong, uncensored opinion of what he once mistook for overt condescendence and stormed off before Ushijima could get another word in edgewise. 

Back then, he wouldn’t have imagined that six years into the future he’d find himself left unhinged by the idea of his former sworn enemy comparing him to another man and finding Oikawa wanting.

Oikawa forces the corners of his mouth to quirk up into a thin, careless smile, pretending that Amano’s words didn’t hit a raw nerve.

“He called me your whore,” he says, tone void of emotion, gaze empty but unwavering, unblinking as if he might miss something crucial if he did.

Behind him Ushijima freezes, spine going ramrod straight, every corded string of muscle constricting dangerously against the curve of Oikawa’s back. The low, borderline feral sound vibrating in Ushijima’s chest feels suspiciously like a growl.

Shuddering, he slowly turns around to catch a glimpse at Ushijima’s stone-faced demeanor when he realizes that their time has run out.

“Ushijima, resume your position. And _you_ ,” their coach bellows, coming to a halt merely a few inches in front the pair of them to point at Oikawa’s chest, expression stern and rigid where he normally regards him with something close to fond approval. “Go outside and get some fresh air. Cool that temper of yours, or I will have no choice but to send you home for the day.”

“Yes, Coach,” they answer in unison, respectfully inclining their heads in silent apology. 

He isn’t sure what to make of the tense line of Ushijima’s shoulders as he watches him return to the court without looking back, each movement strangely controlled, restrained as if it was taking a lot out of him to hold himself back. From doing what, Oikawa can’t quite fathom.

On his way over towards the large set of double doors, leading to the hallway, past the changing rooms and out into the spacious courtyard that connects their gym to several neighboring facilities, Kageyama makes the brave mistake to seek eye contact, raising his hand in an awkward attempt to ask for a word with Oikawa.

Oikawa flashes him a withering smile.

“What are you looking at?” he drawls, voice sweet as honey, lethal around the edges like a viper lying in wait, seconds before the strike. Their arms brush when Oikawa dismissively shoves past him, nose up in the air, always, _always_ keeping his head held high.

He’s fought too hard and sacrificed too much to get here. Like hell is he going to bare his throat to Kageyama now.

“Don’t piss your pants, _Placeholder-chan_ , no one actually expects you to keep up. Oikawa-san will be back in no time to relieve you of the pressure.”

For appearances sake he keeps up the presumptuous charade until he turns the corner, then, with a wary glance over his shoulder, he breaks into a light run. The moment he deems himself to be fully out of sight, the change is harsh and instant, his disdainful smirk fading quickly and falling off his lips altogether once he stumbles outside into the glaring sunlight.

Oikawa doesn’t notice the teardrops clinging heavily to his lashes until they splatter onto the ground inches from his face, hands and knees scraping against the concrete. He spreads apart his scratched-up fingers, following a light trickle of blood rolling down the ball of his thumb as his vision slowly swims in and out of focus.

Numbly, part of him realizes that he should feel pain, but there’s nothing, no sting where his skin is rubbed red and raw, no angry pulsing in his battered knees, just the creeping sensation of his life slipping from his grasp like sand through his fingertips, its very foundations threatening to collapse as he can’t seem to hold his own under the stress of the impending Olympic selection while Ushijima keeps him at a careful, grating distance that leaves his heart throbbing like an open nerve.

He remembers the unreadable look in Ushijima’s half-lidded eyes when they pull apart after a kiss, not betraying a flicker of thought, Amanos’s words roaring in his head, amplified by his own nagging fears, a disease festering in his mind.

_You think he found himself another whore?_

For a second, the world around him becomes terribly still. 

Then, finally, somewhere deep inside of him Oikawa feels himself snap.

With trembling hands helplessly clamping over his ears he screams, screams himself hoarse, screams until, as if from a distance, he hears his own voice crack and out comes a string of dry, harrowing sobs.

Who he cries for, he doesn’t know.

For Ushijima, who appears to be well on his way to realizing that he’s been chasing a fantasy. 

For Iwaizumi, who’s wasted away his youth holding Oikawa’s quivering pieces together by stubborn persistence alone when they both knew that they’d been building on sand. 

For his thirteen year old self, sleeplessly shifting under the covers in the darkness of his childhood room, because he wishes he’d had a little longer, a few more years before he came to understand with a sobering clarity that something about him wasn’t right and he was hurtling towards the inevitable outcome at a sickening speed. 

That it was only a matter of time...

At twenty-four, with his wildest dreams within arm’s reach, Oikawa Tooru feels himself coming apart at the seams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait, especially after I left off at such a cliffhanger, but I'm excited to share the final chapter of this story with you guys and appreciate that you've stuck with me until now!
> 
> A huge thanks to everyone who left me kudos and comments on the first part of this story - your kind words really helped me push through my recent creative block and I hope you'll enjoy this chapter just as much as the last.
> 
> Please let me know if you liked my story - it makes my day! ♡

“What are you doing?” the familiar baritone of Ushijima’s voice cuts through the dense shroud of mist that has settled over Oikawa’s mind, warmth gently spreading down his spine and into the very tips of his toes when Ushijima’s rough palm comes to a rest at the nape of his neck.

Ushijima has always been larger than him, taller, if not by much. 

It’s the broad width of his shoulders and chest that makes Oikawa feel small, the vast, rock-solid expanse of his back, the way Ushijima could effortlessly crush Oikawa’s comparatively delicate fingers in his own if he wished, but chooses to caress the backs of his hands instead.

He can feel Ushijima’s body heat through the fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat and tears, as Ushijima leans over his kneeling form where he has curled up on the pavement, the bulk of him effectively covering Oikawa from sight. Their position reminds him of the countless wakeful nights they’ve spent together, Ushijima forcing himself to keep his heavy-lidded eyes from drawing shut to keep Oikawa company. 

The idea of another restless night without the comfort of Ushijima’s calm, grounding presence makes his entire being convulse with horror.

Sensing the beginning of a new spasm of white hot panic building low in his gut, he breaks out into a cold sweat. He is tired, so utterly, incredibly tired that he catches himself thinking he would rather black out here and now, while he still feels remotely like himself, than stick around to watch himself slowly fall to pieces with the pain of it.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Oikawa deflects, weakly pushes back against Ushijima to create just enough space for himself to get off his knees, turn around and take a long look at his boyfriend, who seems, for the lack of a better word, uncharacteristically frazzled.

“I got myself suspended from practice.”

At that, Oikawa can’t help but let out a clipped bark of laughter.

“ _You?”_ he snorts, momentarily forgetting about the growing tightness in his throat and the uncontrollable tremors in his blood-crusted hands “Our exemplary ace Ushiwaka-chan, Japan’s greatest canon, hope of our nation, _got_ _suspended from practice?_ ”

Ushijima meets his gaze dead-on. 

There’s no trace of a smile in those stormy, golden eyes, no mirth, not even a hint of annoyance at Oikawa’s excessive teasing. If Oikawa was anyone else, he would be afraid, crawl backwards on his hands and feet at the sight of the raw, unconcealed rage blazing in Ushijima’s glare, but he knows that as rarely as Ushijima truly gets angry it will never be directed at him.

“For what?” he adds, voice lowered to a hushed whisper.

Carefully, Ushijima reaches for Oikawa’s face, as if he was afraid to scare him away, fingers relaxing and eventually ceasing to tremble when Oikawa instinctively leans into the touch, pressing a lingering kiss to Ushijima’s palm.

“For threatening a team mate.”

Oikawa feels his jaw drop, chapped lips parting in shock, heart skipping a beat, maybe two, but for once he can’t think of anything to say, no fond quip or smart comeback to relieve the gravity of the situation while covering up the chaotic jumble of emotions churning inside his head. 

He’s well aware that he’s staring, that Ushijima must expect him to show _some_ kind of reaction to his confession, the implications of which are quite literally making Oikawa want to climb him on the spot.

Minutes tick by in silence and with each moment, each second that Oikawa fails to respond, his brain helplessly trying to process the fact that Ushijima Wakatoshi put his reputation (and potentially his _career_ ) on the line to defend Oikawa’s honor in front of the entirety of the national team, Ushijima deflates a little further, expression beginning to grow distant.

“You are disappointed in me,” Ushijima concludes mechanically, hand defeatedly falling away from Oikawa’s cheek. It’s impossible to miss the self-deprecating twist to his mouth right before he inclines his head in shame. “I am sorry. I realize that I should have exhibited more self-control—“

Oikawa doesn’t let him finish.

He propels himself forward without prior warning, taking Ushijima by surprise and knocking him straight onto his back. His scraped-up knees collide with the pavement all over again, but he couldn’t care less, doesn’t even register the burn, or anything else, really, once he crashes his mouth against Ushijima’s, tongue eagerly bullying its way past red, willing lips.

Kissing Ushijima, Oikawa has come to understand, isn’t the feverish struggle for dominance he used to secretly picture in his mind, daydreaming in class or tossing and turning in his narrow single bed long past midnight, starting halfway into their first year of college. 

What is there to contend over if everything Oikawa seeks is being so readily given? 

From the first time they made out in the showers after a long night of extra practice, Ushijima has been wax in Oikawa’s hands — soft and pliant; rough if, and only if, Oikawa’s hungry gaze demands it. He kisses like he courts him to this day, earnestly, with dedication, with every fiber of his being, humming his encouragement when Oikawa runs his fingers through his hair and grips him tightly, holding him in place while ravaging him whole.

Only pulling back to draw in a rushed breath of air, Oikawa presses their foreheads together, their noses bumping against each other awkwardly, and he can’t decide whether he wants to speak or dive straight back in, so he chooses both.

“You didn’t have to...” he pants, nips at Ushijima’s jaw, kisses his stunned face wherever he can reach. 

Every inch of his body is brimming with need, his skin crawling with it.

 _“I love you,”_ Ushijima murmurs back against his lips as if it was some kind of universal truth, an explanation for everything he’s done to lead them to this very moment.

Oikawa prays to God that Ushijima doesn’t catch the treacherous sheen in his eyes before he hides himself from view behind the collar of his track jacket, squeezing them shut.

—

The air in their small bedroom room is sweltering, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, filled with the sounds of their mingling gasps each time Oikawa snaps his hips forward sharply, driving himself deeper into Ushijima’s clenching insides, forcing Ushijima’s tight, quivering body to collapse onto the mattress, cheeks glowing bright pink where his face is pressed into the tangle of their ruined sheets.

“Keep your ass up,” Oikawa orders almost softly; impatiently watches Ushijima’s immediate struggle to get back on his knees that keep on buckling under his weight.

“I can’t…” Ushijima growls with growing frustration, bruised hips twitching weakly in their desperate search of some semblance of friction, but today Oikawa isn’t having any of it. 

“Higher, yeah… that’s it babe. Show yourself to me.”

He grabs him by the thighs, tugs and pulls, ravenous hazel eyes tracing the perfect curve of Ushijima’s spine from the muscular swell of his ass all the way down to his trembling shoulders, tan skin glistening from the exertion.

“Now, tell me what you did,” Oikawa coos, massaging up and down Ushijima’s arched back in long, broad strokes.

It’s maddening, the sight of him, fucked out and dangerously vulnerable, fingers scrabbling for purchase, clenching, clawing, corded muscle rippling with every move, mouth and hole glistening with slick smears of cum.

“I already— _aah—”_

Oikawa uses his right hand to part Ushijima’s ass for easier access, giving his own aching cock a few slow pumps with his left before dropping it on Ushijima’s backside with a wet slap.

“I said _tell me again,”_ he breathes down Ushijima’s neck, sweetly, as he mounts him once more, drapes himself across his shivering form like a heavy blanket and penetrates him in one powerful thrust that slams the air straight out of Ushijima’s burning lungs.

For a long minute, Oikawa holds completely still. 

He appeasingly nuzzles the side of Ushijima’s neck, gives him the time he needs to get his bearings, then finally dares to test the waters by tenderly rolling one swollen nipple between his fingertips the way Ushijima likes it, applying just the right amount of pressure to elicit a string of faint gasps and moans.

Oikawa knows he’s been pushing it, pushing Ushijima to his limits and beyond. 

They’ve been at it for hours, yet he finds himself hard and craving, sticky palm sneaking across Ushijima’s ripped stomach and pressing down gently. He begins to rock into his tight, soaked passage at a languid pace, milking his prostate with every shallow strike of his pulsing cock head, slowly making Ushijima lose whatever last scrap of sanity he’s been holding on to, but never giving him what they’re both aware he so urgently needs.

“I—“ Ushijima tries, choking on a raspy groan when Oikawa’s teeth sink into his earlobe.

“He was laughing. I heard him laughing behind your back after Coach asked you to step outside and I couldn’t— I lost it—”

Blinded by a new searing spike of arousal, Oikawa grabs him by a fistful of his dark locks, moist between his fingertips, and yanks his head back hard to fully expose Ushijima’s neck, his Adam's apple bobbing wildly in his throat. 

_More,_ he demands wordlessly as his calloused hand wraps around it, quick and tight, just a taste, _a promise._

Predictably, the effect is instant, Ushijima’s body spasming uncontrollably around Oikawa’s dripping cock, pupils dilating until dusky black swallows olive and gold, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling, clouded with lust, pleading for Oikawa to stop toying with him and fuck him like he means it.

“I grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back against the wall,” Ushijima croaks out breathlessly. “He tried to duck away, but I refused to let him go…”

Oikawa follows every word, every tantalizing movement of those kiss-bruised lips, still red and puffy, slick with spit from warming Oikawa’s cock not an hour ago, idly suckling him back to hardness after Oikawa let him clean up his scrapes, then gave it to him hard against the bathroom counter, grinding into him slowly, impossibly deep.

“Told him I would snap him in half if I ever heard your name from his worthless mouth again. ‘I didn’t know he meant something to you,’ he said. _Tooru, I wanted to kill him, I—”_

“ _Shhh_ ,” Oikawa whispers soothingly, feeling Ushijima bristle in his arms with renewed agitation, and cutting off his airway with a practiced flick of his wrist, one deliberate, yet painstakingly cautious squeeze to his bared throat. 

“I’m going to fill you up. Choke you out and stuff you so full of me, the only thing you’ll remember is my name. Going to make you come, make you feel good…”

In the end, it barely takes him more than a handful of rapid, punishing rolls of his hips to draw a strangled scream from Ushijima’s mouth, his flushed face going slack with pleasure. Oikawa wastes no time forcing his hand between Ushijima’s open legs to pull at his twitching length, flicking and thumbing at the sensitive head, stroking him to completion. 

He plows him through it despite the sharp burn in his thighs, feels his own orgasm build low in his stomach.

 _“Wakatoshi,”_ he moans roughly, digging his nails into Ushijima’s waist and burying himself to the hilt, holding himself there, Ushijima’s ass firmly pressed against his stuttering hips.

Already bloated with Oikawa’s seed, Ushijima shivers in his arms when Oikawa comes undone, flooding his insides; sighs with pleasure and something akin to relief at the feeling of Oikawa’s cock finally softening as it slips free from his gaping hole, seemingly sated at last.

After a hazy couple of minutes, spent calming their racing hearts and erratic breathing, Oikawa helps Ushijima roll over onto his back, lets himself be pulled down into a slow, open-mouthed kiss that makes his head spin, drunk on the intimacy of Ushijima’s fingertips mapping out his cheekbones while his tongue is lazily tracing the shape of Oikawa’s bottom lip. 

He doesn’t know how to thank Ushijima for standing up for him so fiercely, regardless of the consequences.

He doesn’t know how to tell Ushijima that in that moment, back outside the gym, he saved him without realizing how or why; brought him back from the verge of the abyss when Oikawa had been ready to succumb to its dark, familiar pull.

“You need water,” Oikawa murmurs in between soft, light-headed kisses, fighting off Ushijima’s quite persistent attempts at locking him in place to reach for the half-empty bottle they abandoned on the nightstand earlier, hoping that somehow he can show him instead.

Once Ushijima manages to prop himself up against a small stack of pillows, Oikawa places his hand at the back of his head, affectionately brushing through his mussed up hair, and carefully guides the opening to his lips; makes him tilt his head back by just a little. In spite of his best efforts, a few drops end up dribbling down Ushijima’s chin as he compliantly gulps down his drink.

Acutely aware that he should be laughing and teasing, that this should look absolutely ridiculous, Oikawa feels the ever-growing swarm of butterflies that seems to have taken up residence inside his chest tenderly fluttering their wings against the all too narrow confines of his ribcage.

“Look at you,” he tuts, fondly shaking his head while dabbing Ushijima’s face with a tissue. “What a mess.”

“You are in no position to talk, considering what you just did to me.”

Ushijima’s tone is flat, but there’s a playful smile glinting beneath the surface of his tired gaze.

 _“Did?”_ Oikawa asks guilelessly. 

His pointer finger lazily drags down between Ushijima’s defined pecs, draws a line across his lower stomach, along the light dusting of his happy trail and lower towards the thick base of his spent cock. 

“Who said that I was done with you?”

Ushijima lets his head drop back against the headboard with an amused snort, clearly under the impression that Oikawa must be bluffing. 

(He would know, wouldn’t he — after all he’s been the one impaled on that ravenous cock ever since they stumbled through their apartment door what’s beginning to feel like a lifetime ago.)

Chuckling lightly at Oikawa’s shameless bravado, he peers down at him through drowsy, half-lidded eyes, inadvertently spurring him on further, and Oikawa surges forward, hitting Ushijima like a rolling storm.

He pushes his legs apart as far as they’ll go, the saccharine smile sliding off his lips as he lets something dark and predatory seep into his gaze. 

Ushijima lets out a shaky moan, overwhelmed, breath visibly catching in his throat when two slender fingers ruthlessly dip inside his sloppy hole, spreading him nice and wide, soon to be replaced by the tip of Oikawa’s hardening cock kissing his rim. 

_“Again?”_ he gasps, all but shocked out of his fuzzy, post-coital daze. Oikawa cups his cheek in his palm, watches Ushijima’s exhausted expression like a hawk circling its prey. 

“What if I never stopped?” he whispers heatedly before his love-drugged brain can catch up with his mouth, but there’s no fear, no resistance in those warm, trusting eyes, just an all-consuming desire to feel Oikawa close.

“Kiss me then,” Ushijima eventually demands, idle hands running up Oikawa’s back, scrabbling for purchase. “Fuck me gently…”

So Oikawa does; longingly seals Ushijima’s lips with his as he melts into him painfully slowly, so deeply he can no longer tell where his own writhing soul ends and Ushijima begins.

—

“Where are you taking me?” Oikawa yawns, eyelids drooping dangerously low as he regards the ominous navy blue backpack strapped to Ushijima’s shoulders with mild suspicion.

It’s their day off from practice, a rare occasion that Oikawa hoped to spend holed up inside their bedroom, wrapped in a soft cocoon of blankets with his computer sitting in his lap, analyzing various opponents (both in and outside of their own ranks) to get a headstart on developing his own arsenal of nasty countermeasures.

Ushijima, however, clearly had something different in mind if the way he quietly pursed his lips before plucking Oikawa’s old reading glasses off his nose was anything to go by.

Fast-forward about sixty minutes to find Oikawa wearily trailing after his boyfriend, who is jogging along the sidewalk just a few feet ahead of him, unmoved by Oikawa’s petulant grumbling behind his back.

“To the park,” Ushijima finally deigns to respond; throws a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Oikawa is still bothering to keep up at the precise moment Oikawa chooses to think out loud.

“The last time I checked, _your_ annoying ass shouldn’t even be able to _walk_ for the next couple of days _.”_

Stone-faced as ever, Ushijima turns his focus back on the path in front of him, taking a minute to contemplate Oikawa’s words. In the end, it turns out, Oikawa is as utterly unprepared for the outcome as he should quite frankly have known he would be.

“Last night you were…” 

There’s a lingering pause that has the thin hair on Oikawa’s forearms standing on end, has him wishing he could spin Ushijima around and see the look on his face without giving away his own nervous suspense.

 _“Breathtaking?”_ he purrs suggestively, summoning an air of easy nonchalance he doesn’t genuinely feel, heart racing wildly in his chest (and certainly not from overexerting himself).

“Yes,” Ushijima says bluntly; slows down his speed as they approach a red light flashing on the other side of a crosswalk. 

Flustered out of his mind by the casual admission, paired with the sudden hoarseness of Ushijima’s tone, Oikawa doesn’t pay proper attention to his surroundings, forehead bumping straight into Ushijima’s broad back when they come to a halt at the curb. He freezes, wide-eyed, tentatively curls his fingers into the light fabric of Ushijima’s track jacket.

(It isn’t that Ushijima _doesn’t_ take his breath away in turn, that Oikawa doesn’t _want_ to lick Ushijima’s bronzed abs and tell him that he resembles the image of a young God, golden eyes glinting like pools of molten sunlight. 

The thought of saying any of those things out loud, on the other hand…)

“I feel the burn of you in every step,” Ushijima rumbles on mercilessly, reaching back to pull a sports drink from the side pocket of his bag and offering it to Oikawa. Mouth suddenly uncomfortably dry, he accepts it, not without reminding himself that they _have_ been running for a good thirty minutes by now — it’s only natural that he’d be thirsty.

“The pain is a small price to pay. I do not wish for it to fade.”

 _Oh, that can be arranged,_ Oikawa thinks darkly, a familiar possessiveness stirring somewhere in the far back of his mind to torment him. He tips his head back just enough to press a light kiss to Ushijima’s mouth, sweet and slow, lips curling up into a smug smile. 

It’s only by some goddamn miracle that he manages to keep his big mouth shut until, at long last, they reach what appears to be their destination.

This early in the morning, they find the park largely deserted, save for a couple of fellow joggers tirelessly running laps around the lake and an old lady feeding the ducks from one of the empty wooden benches down by the shore.

Squinting up into the sunlight filtering through the rustling branches high above, the sound of rippling water and birds chirping in the treetops filling his ears, Oikawa can’t help feeling strangely at peace, if only for a fleeting moment or two.

He catches Ushijima’s hand in his and lets himself be guided off the main track, the grass soft and springy underneath the worn soles of his trainers. 

Preoccupied with watching an excited Shiba Inu chasing after a tennis ball at the other end of the vast open area stretching out in every direction, Oikawa nearly misses his cue to stop walking when Ushijima finally seems to have found what he’s been looking for somewhere towards the middle of the lawn.

Setting his backpack down by his feet, Ushijima gives him a long, unreadable look that makes Oikawa narrow his eyes with thinly veiled impatience. 

He doesn’t have all day. 

If Ushijima has something to say, he better spit it out sooner than later.

“So, what now, Waka-chan?” Oikawa prods impatiently, scrunching up his face in confusion as Ushijima produces a volleyball from the depths of his bag, silently tosses it up in the air and passes it to Oikawa, who shoots him an unimpressed glare and folds his arms in front of his chest, letting the ball drop onto the grass in front of him with a dull thud.

“You were supposed to send it back to me,” Ushijima, much to Oikawa’s sudden irritation, states the obvious, clearly waiting for him to get moving. 

Oikawa doesn’t budge an inch.

“No kidding. And the point of that is?” he drawls; pointedly taps his foot while checking the time and mentally calculating the number of recorded matches he will still be able to squeeze into his rather tight schedule if, by some miracle, Ushijima doesn’t wheedle him into calling it a night before 2 a.m.

“The point is to play volleyball with me,” Ushijima explains calmly, stepping into Oikawa’s space and gently nudging the ball against his chest after Oikawa stubbornly refuses to uncross his arms and take it into his hands. 

His behavior may be childish. 

Oikawa doesn’t give a damn.

 _“Here?”_ he huffs, raising one incredulous eyebrow as if to challenge Ushijima to get with the program. “I don’t see any net or boundaries. I can’t even do a proper serve at this place, _unless_ you want me to risk blasting some random pedestrian’s head off by accident? Couldn’t you just have taken me to our gym instead of wasting my time—“

His last words have hardly made it past his lips when he recognizes his mistake, albeit too late to amend it. 

“I did not realize you considered spending your free time with me a waste,” Ushijima says flatly, voice uncharacteristically clipped. One quick glimpse at the miserable expression in his partner’s eyes before he makes to turn away has Oikawa’s pounding heart drop to the bottom of his stomach, heavy as lead. 

He feels helpless, helpless in the face of Ushijima’s hurt that he never meant to cause and, like so often, resorts to the twisted comfort of another emotion, one he’s become alarmingly accustomed to over the years.

Anger.

It wells up in his blood, ripping and tearing through his veins, familiar, yet frightening at the same time.

 _“Quit twisting my words in my mouth._ The Summer Games are just around the corner. You know as well as I do that the next few months are critical.”

 _Or maybe you don’t, but we can’t all be prodigies, can we?_ Oikawa’s inner voice sneers hotly, the thought immediately followed by a pang of shame and regret as he starts coming back to his senses, remembering that Ushijima has been working just as hard as him, not once leaving Oikawa’s side.

“When was the last time you truly had fun playing volleyball?” Ushijima counters, abruptly interrupting his wallowing. 

There’s _something_ about his golden gaze, something piercing, _knowing,_ that tells Oikawa it would be pointless to hide the truth.

“Don’t lie to me, Tooru. When?”

 _I don’t know,_ he wants to scream in Ushijima’s face, bottom lip trembling violently, eyes stinging with held back tears. He has been carefully avoiding the subject for weeks, if not months, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t go down this road, not even in his own head. 

Ushijima, on the other hand, has never been one to simply leave well enough alone.

“Have you ever considered that some of us can’t afford thinking about _having fun,_ ” Oikawa bristles, a lifetime’s worth of seething bitterness finally threatening to boil over the edges, hissing and spitting, drowning out every other sound.

The man he has grown into no longer loathes Ushijima for his abundance of overwhelming innate talent; quite the contrary. It has come to fill Oikawa with a sense of stupid, fierce, loving pride. 

No, with the Olympics drawing closer every day and his time running out at a sickening pace, the aimless resentment sleeping inside his heart has long turned inward, latching onto a new target.

“You know what, forget it. Just take me back home,” Oikawa adds curtly, in a hurry to steer away from the issue and end the conversation before he manages to talk himself into a corner.

He may already have, judging by the small, telltale frown on Ushijima’s face, brows furrowing in concentration as he struggles for the right words to say. It’s a remnant of the past, a hurdle that, for the most part, they’ve managed to put behind themselves and usually a surefire indicator that Ushijima believes himself to be overstepping a line, wondering if he’s about to put his foot in his mouth and set Oikawa off.

Oikawa hates it.

“Are you not going to tell me what’s wrong?” Ushijima finally asks, a simple, straightforward question that somehow, in all its vagueness, doesn’t require any further elaboration. 

Within a fraction of a second, Oikawa’s expression shutters. 

He can’t say that he hasn’t seen it coming, can’t pretend he’s prepared to set aside his stubborn pride and tear himself open, lay himself bare in front of Ushijima, who, despite their turbulent history, has yet to see the worst of him and come to a final decision. 

Though the odds may never have been in Oikawa’s favor, he doesn’t intend on prematurely triggering his own demise.

He doesn’t want to think about a year or even a month from now, about Ushijima’s hand laced with someone else’s, about another setter, more gifted and extraordinary than himself, stepping into the Olympic arena beside him; doesn’t want to think about anything but the longing in Ushijima’s hazy eyes as Oikawa moves on top of him, dominates him the same way Ushijima allows him to dominate the court.

 _(I’m being told Ushijima-san expects absolute, undivided devotion from his setter_ , Oikawa remembers overhearing a nervous-looking first-year whispering to another at the start of his and Ushijima’s second year on the same college volleyball team. And who could blame them? On the outside, Ushijima appears aloof, intimidating at best — a fact that, at the time, wasn’t helped by the rather unfortunate reputation he had established for himself in high school.

Control and insufferable arrogance were what Oikawa had braced himself to deal with during those first fateful weeks of practice, shared with the unconquerable nemesis who’d haunted the vengeful years of his adolescence. Ultimately, it had taken Oikawa less than a handful of rebellious tosses to discover how easily that raw, earthshaking power bends to his will, and his will alone.)

As his thoughts stray and scatter, his silence stretching like a chasm breaking open between them, something about Ushijima’s composure changes, a subtle shift in his gaze that speaks of yearning, the quiet, hopeless kind that makes Oikawa’s insides twist into knots with guilt.

“I told you I would refrain from prying,” Ushijima says slowly; ducks his head to hide himself from sight. Not once throughout the past decade has Oikawa seen him falter, surrender without a fight. 

The sight pulls the rug out straight from under his feet. 

“But it pains me to see you going through this on your own. I understand that I’m not…”

And for the first time in weeks, Oikawa realizes that he hasn’t been the only one hurting.

“There must be someone else. Someone you can talk to. Iwaizumi—”

 _“Hey,”_ Oikawa softly cuts him off, tipping up Ushijima’s chin with gentle fingers and pecking him on the lips, then pulls back just enough to breathe his next words against the corner of Ushijima’s mouth. “That’s not—“

A half-truth, he decides, is better than none. If he can keep this about volleyball...

“I didn’t want you to think less of me,” he starts over, tone suspiciously breezy even to his own ears, eyes downcast, fixated on his free hand smoothing out the wrinkles in Ushijima’s jacket. “Not that it matters now. What’s the point in keeping my mouth shut if my performance has been speaking for itself. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” 

Lightly resting his chin on the crown of Oikawa’s head, Ushijima nuzzles into his windswept hair with a thoughtful hum, waiting, listening closely. It has always made Oikawa feel a little light-headed, being the focus of Ushijima’s intense, single-minded attention.

“Coach’s patience is wearing thin; I can see it in the way he looks at me. By the end of the week I’ll get myself booted from the starting line-up.”

Ushijima tenses up under his fingertips, pressing his nose to Oikawa’s scalp and drawing in a sharp breath of air, a little too controlled to pass as anything but a flare of blatant disapproval. 

Intimately familiar with the subtleties of Ushijima’s body language, Oikawa senses the tremendous amount of effort it takes him to hold back from declaring his indubitably strong opinion on what’s been said in favor of giving Oikawa the room he needs to get to the core of the problem. It would have made it hard not to smile if he wasn’t about to voice some of the very thoughts that have been keeping him up at night, thoughts that, up until recently, Oikawa has been afraid to admit even to himself, as if keeping them locked away was going to make them any less real.

“I can’t stand the idea of you spiking _his_ tosses and realizing that I’ve been holding you back this whole—“

“One time after practice, Kageyama asked me if he could give me a few sets; said he would appreciate my honest appraisal. You had stayed home with an upset stomach that day, or he would have tried to approach you instead,” Ushijima finally silences him; takes a step back to get a proper look at Oikawa, who instinctively follows.

 _That rude little shit,_ he thinks indignantly, feeling himself bare his teeth in a snarl.

“He did not mean to insult me, Tooru,” Ushijima is quick to appease as he traces the shape of Oikawa’s parted lips with the rough pad of his thumb until Oikawa closes his eyes, hesitantly relaxing into the touch. “Or are we going to pretend that _I_ am the one he is so desperately seeking to be acknowledged by? In any case, Kageyama was good.”

Oikawa’s hands curl into trembling fists by his sides, nails biting into his palms with dreadful anticipation.

“Precise. I suppose you could say he turned out to be nothing less than I expected” Ushijima continues after a minute of careful contemplation, unaware of the way Oikawa is barely suppressing the urge to be sick. “And nothing more. At the time, I did not have the words to express what exactly it was that I felt he was lacking.”

Maybe it’s the newly found knowledge that Kageyama had the nerve to approach Oikawa’s ace behind his back that does him in, or maybe it’s the fact that Oikawa had believed Ushijima of all people respected him enough not to coddle him with false comfort to spare his feelings.

Either way, he’s heard enough.

 _“Bullshit!”_ he cries out, eyes wild with anguish and a manic flicker of hope, their noses nearly touching when he slams his hands down on the solid expanse of Ushijima’s chest to roughly yank him forward. _“This is bullshit and we both know it,_ _so stop making a fool of yourself for my sake._ What could I possibly have to offer that Kageyama is lacking? This isn’t highschool anymore. I’ve reached my limits. I’ve gone as far as hard work and sheer force of will can take me and people are beginning to notice.”

Ushijima lets him; lets him ramp and rage and jostle him around by his collar until, eventually, Oikawa begins to run out of steam.

He finds himself panting, feeling his throat constrict around every strangled breath, but chokes out the words anyway, like they’re the only truth he’s ever known.

“I'm no genius, Wakatoshi, and they made sure I'll never forget it.”

To his surprise, Ushijima merely raises an eyebrow, unphased, open incredulity flickering in his stare where Oikawa expected to see the same old twinge of pity his former coaches would regard him with upon catching him practicing late into the night, followed by a stern reminder that blowing out his knee a second time won’t get him any closer to bridging the gap.

 _Nothing ever will,_ they didn’t have to say.

Oikawa heard it in the way they’d praise him for putting in a _decent effort_ in the same breath they’d discuss the rapidly waning advantage he still held over a wiz kid like Kageyama.

“And who are they to decide that?”

His head snaps up at the unperturbed confidence in Ushijima’s tone, the type of quiet self-assurance befitting a man who has been playing at the top of his league from the very day he entered the competition.

“Don’t…” Oikawa whispers tiredly, leaning in to shut him up with a kiss rather than another sharp retort that he knows he’ll only end up regretting a heartbeat later, but Ushijima doesn’t let him get away that easily. 

Strong fingers grab at his chin; hold him in place; force him to meet Ushijima’s eyes, pupils blown wide with a searing heat usually reserved for the chaotic aftermath of a particularly high-intensity match, for the sight of Oikawa’s haughty mouth put to silence, eagerly gagging around his cock in the half-dark of foreign hotel rooms.

“Out on the court your tosses bring me alive. When my palm connects with the ball,” Ushijima shivers at the memory, grip tightening pleasantly around Oikawa’s jaw, “I feel invincible. I feel like there is no wall I cannot conquer, no heights I cannot reach. I have no idea how you dip into reserves or break through restrictions I did not realize I even had, but you do. It is beyond me how anyone could disregard your brilliance.”

“Look at me, Tooru,” he asks gently but firmly and Oikawa can’t help himself, biting his lip to hold back a pathetic hiccup as he defiantly glances up at Ushijima through a thin shroud of tears, daring him to comment on this rare display of weakness and get himself kicked in the balls. 

“I do not care for his tosses, Kageyama’s or anybody else’s.”

In a last ditch effort to preserve whatever remains of his dignity, Oikawa lets himself slump forward against Ushijima’s chest, burying his face into the crook of his neck, cheeks flushed red from his hopeless struggle to keep himself from bursting out crying with relief.

“I guess your spikes aren’t too shabby either,” Oikawa snickers with a playful bite to Ushijima’s collar bone that has Ushijima’s body rumbling with quiet laughter. 

“If only you weren’t such a brute—“

“It is funny that you mention it,” Ushijima says calmly, bending over to pick up the ball lying abandoned by his feet and watching it spin it between his fingertips.

“An old teammate of mine used to tell me I would make a horrendous setter. Care to prove him right?”

Lighting up further at the prospect of getting to fool around with Ushijima, taunting and teasing, tackling him down into the grass to make it up with a barrage of soft kisses and affectionate nips to the ear that will make Ushijima laugh some more — that warm, gravelly laugh he saves for when it’s just the two of them — Oikawa yanks up Ushijima’s sleeve to wipe at his drying tears.

He flashes him a brazen smirk, dazzling and carefree and _real_ , as he gets into position. 

Suddenly, Oikawa isn’t in such a hurry to get home.

“You bet.”

—

There’s a storm coming.

Oikawa can smell it in the crisp night air ruffling through his hair, feel it in his bones, see it in the tense line of Ushijima’s shoulders, fingers nervously tapping against his hip as he checks his phone for the third time in a row within the past five minutes. When the screen lights up with what Oikawa can only assume must be a new message, the corners of Ushijima’s mouth twitch up into the hint of a fond smile. 

His right hand closing around the handle of the balcony door, Oikawa slams it shut violently enough to make it rattle in its frame. He sullenly stalks across the room and stretches out at the opposite end of the couch, stuffing his socked feet underneath Ushijima’s thighs. 

The first time he caught Ushijima like this, uncharacteristically absorbed in a lengthy conversation with God knows who (well, _lengthy_ for Ushijima’s standards, considering that, unlike Oikawa, he has never seen the appeal of wasting more time on his phone than strictly necessary), he leaned in slowly; wordlessly rested his head against Ushijima’s collarbone and tried to sneak a quick glance at the chat — just one, Oikawa told himself, there’d be no harm in that.

He knew fully well that he was being nosy, shamelessly so, but didn’t think Ushijima would particularly care.

As it turned out, Ushijima did. 

Oikawa didn’t even get a glimpse of the other person’s chat ID with how fast the app disappeared from view, swiftly replaced by a web article several pages deep into the intricacies of bonsai gardening.

The second time, he went about it more carefully, walking up behind Ushijima where he was seated at the kitchen table, finishing his lunch while unsuspectingly tapping away on his phone, which had already made its way back into Ushijima’s pocket by the time Oikawa got close enough to crane his neck for a peek.

All in all, it’s been nothing short of a great week for Oikawa ever since their painful, yet long overdue heart to heart at the park. He’s been sleeping soundly, tucked away in the soothing warmth of Ushijima’s embrace, and awaking to the shrill noise of his alarm rather than starting from his sleep sweat-soaked in the middle of another nightmare. 

Feeling strangely light, as if he had spent the past month and a half shackled down by an invisible weight pulling at his ankles, he has been taking practice in stride, firing off service ace after service ace with a frightening accuracy that’s been leaving his team gaping at their setter with increasing alarm. Ushijima’s eyes never strayed from Oikawa’s flawless form, dark and glowing with quiet elation, though not looking surprised in the slightest; strong hands turning each one of Oikawa’s pinpoint sets into another point with the unforgiving force of a hurricane.

( _You’re mine,_ Oikawa would groan around those same calloused fingers, still burning red against his tongue, as he’d buck his hips up into Ushijima’s thigh behind the lockers, sky high on adrenaline; Ushijima’s hissed warnings, combined with the distant squeaking of gym shoes, only adding to the thrill.)

Most notably, Ushijima has been making a point of reassuring Oikawa that he’s welcome to tag along just about anywhere the way he used to, giving Oikawa a sense of renewed confidence that maybe he’d been getting carried away, reading too much into Ushijima’s odd behavior. That maybe they’d be okay after all.

And yet, even now that things are finally beginning to look up again, Oikawa can’t shake the notion that something simply isn’t feeling _quite right._

Having known Ushijima for nearly half of his life, as an enemy, a rival, a friend and, lastly, a lover, a partner in every sense of the word, he’s had plenty of time to learn that Ushijima doesn’t do secrets. He doesn’t hold back. He doesn’t lie and expects brutal honesty in return. 

Where Oikawa shys away from direct confrontation, preferring to sulk and brood, all the while dishing out snappy comments that he’s perfectly aware will only make things worse, Ushijima has never been afraid to prove to Oikawa that an argument doesn’t mean the end of the world, that Oikawa won’t have to choose between making his frustrations known and getting to kiss Ushijima goodnight later at night.

 _Then why,_ Oikawa’s inner voice provides, sweet like poison, _does it feel like he’s shutting you out?_

He studies the soft, unreadable expression on Ushijima’s face, the way his phone screen is canted to the side _just so_ , keeping it out of Oikawa’s line of sight; thinks back to how Ushijima put an end to his strange, solitary outings almost immediately after Oikawa had thrown a tantrum about it. It had only been a matter of days for the texting to take their place.

“So, who is the lucky guy?” Oikawa drawls, voice dripping with feigned cheerfulness, so sweet it makes him ill, razor sharp smile cutting right through Ushijima’s peaceful bubble.

No amount of gentle prodding or careful observation has gotten him anywhere close to figuring out the rules of whatever grueling game they’ve been playing these past few weeks. 

Tonight, Oikawa decides, he’ll fight dirty if he has to.

Visibly perplexed, Ushijima’s sets his phone down on the coffee table with a light _clink_ and looks up at Oikawa, confused olive eyes zeroing in on him, looking so lost, it hits Oikawa like a punch to the gut. 

“Excuse me?” 

He finds himself disarmed on the spot, caught between guilt, jealousy and the lingering suspicion that Ushijima, maybe without even realizing it just yet, already has one foot out the door.

 _“Just kidding,”_ he singsongs, crawling across the couch and into Ushijima’s lap to push him back against the armrest, straddle him, run his greedy hands up and down the front of his sweater before bending over to lick into Ushijima’s mouth. “You seemed… quite immersed in your conversation, that’s all. Say that you have to go. Tell them you’re busy ravishing your hot boyfriend.”

“They would be scandalized.”

“All the better,” Oikawa growls, then pushes one hand underneath Ushijima’s clothes to feel up his abs. 

He’ll take whatever he can get, for however long he can have it, memorize every kiss and breathless gasp around his given name and carve them into the hollow spaces between his ribs, hold onto them until the end.

They spend the rest of the evening tangled up on the couch, Ushijima’s phone a mere afterthought once Oikawa has kicked it down onto the carpet, whimpering against Ushijima’s lips with each sensual stroke of his lover’s tongue, each suggestive thrust into Oikawa’s wet, willing mouth, squirming under Ushijima’s touch. 

Ushijima’s fingers are hesitant at first, a little skeptical after the unexplained shift in Oikawa’s mood, but eventually begin to caress their way up Oikawa’s spine and to the nape of his neck, lightly carding through his silky hair.

Outside the sun sets slowly on the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant shades of orange and pink, soothing like the warmth of Ushijima’s kisses, soft like the flutter of Ushijima’s lashes against his cheek when he cradles Oikawa the way one would something precious, something of unfathomable value, the weight of Ushijima’s hand at the back of his head gentle and protective.

Deceiving like the calm before the storm.

Oikawa knows it’s coming with the same eerie calm he felt the day his best friend found him on the wrong side of the chain link fence atop the school roof, absently dangling his feet over the edge until Iwaizumi threw him back into the wall, breathless and frightened and angrier than Oikawa had ever seen him in his life.

_What if you fall and die, you bastard? What then?_

He closes his eyes and tightens his grip around Ushijima’s waist, so much so, he hears Ushijima let out a faint gasp, followed by a trail of butterfly kisses down the side of his neck.

Some days, Oikawa realized then, back on the rooftop, it feels like he’s been falling all along.

—

The storm arrives two days after, on a late Sunday morning that finds Oikawa stumbling into their living room with a graceless yawn, dressed in nothing but boxers and a ratty, old t-shirt at least two sizes too large, lured out of bed by the sticky sweet scent of strawberry pancakes.

He sleepily rubs at his eyes, bare toes curling into the carpet as he stretches his tired limbs like a spoiled cat. 

When, finally, the world starts swimming into proper view, still a bit fuzzy around the edges, Oikawa’s lips part in surprise at the scene unfolding before him.

The dinner table is set up prettily, all candles and flower petals spread out between bowls of fruit and jelly, a basket of warm banana crumb muffins sitting next to an enormous bouquet of red roses, streaked with sprinkles of baby’s breath. 

Behind the kitchen counter, Ushijima is bent over in front of the oven, mitten-clad hands retrieving what looks an awful lot like a fresh loaf of milk bread and gently setting it down on a cooling rack to flip the pancake sizzling in the frying pan on the stove. There’s a black apron neatly tied around his middle, allowing Oikawa a glimpse at the tightly fitted dress shirt he's wearing underneath. It’s tucked into a brand new pair of blue jeans that may as well have been sown onto Ushijima’s powerful thighs with how dangerously little it leaves to the imagination.

Suddenly feeling severely underdressed, Oikawa tugs on the collar of his shirt where it’s loosely hanging off his left shoulder as he reluctantly pads over towards the kitchen. He takes another awed look at the breakfast table, draws in a shaky breath, his heart swelling rapidly in his chest at the sight of Ushijima’s huge fingers carefully decorating two matching plates with berries and delicate slices of Oikawa’s favorite fruit.

“Good morning,” he murmurs quietly, voice raspy with sleep, and waits for Ushijima to turn all the way around before hooking slender fingers through his belt loops and pulling him flush against his chest, reeling him in for a deep kiss.

“Who’s this hunk of a baker invading my home and what did you do to my boyfriend?” Oikawa demands coyly after one last peck, moves on to needlessly adjusting Ushijima’s flour-stained apron. Ushijima regards him with a small, indulgent smile that makes Oikawa go a bit weak in the knees.

“What’s with this outfit anyway? Has no one ever taught you it’s rude, looking this handsome?”

“No,” Ushijima answers simply as he manhandles Oikawa towards the dining area and into his seat. The ridiculous graveness in his tone makes Oikawa want to tear his hair out in mild frustration. 

(If it also makes the corners of his mouth twitch up with a rush of overwhelming fondness, he won’t be caught admitting any of it.)

 _This shouldn’t be attractive_ , he groans internally, opening his mouth, but quickly thinking better of it. Rhetorical questions, he has discovered in the early, rather complicated stages of their relationship, remain a foreign concept to Ushijima. Besides, it’s at least two hours and an extra sweet caramel frappuccino too soon to have this conversation.

“You did all this for me,” he whispers under his breath instead, more to himself than Ushijima; plucks a muffin from the basket and breaks it in half to get to its perfectly fluffy middle. He genuinely didn’t know Ushijima could bake.

“Why?”

Setting down two steaming cups of coffee, one pitch black, the other creamy with a light dusting of cinnamon, Ushijima regards him with a long, steady glance that Oikawa’s mind expertly translates to _be patient, Tooru, you’ll see._

Oikawa stares back stubbornly.

The moment Ushijima turns his back, presumably to fetch the pancakes and milk bread waiting for them on the far counter, Oikawa’s gaze falls on Ushijima’s back pocket, the one that usually holds his wallet. He isn’t sure how the detail escaped him earlier, considering that he’d taken his sweet time ogling Ushijima’s ass, but there’s something hidden there, stretching out the fabric. It’s small, the shape of a cube, just slightly softer.

Oikawa contemplates leaving it alone for about half a second. 

It takes him another two to drop what’s left of his pastry on his plate, leap to his feet and pounce on Ushijima from behind, shoving his hand down his pocket with a brazen smirk.

“What’s this?” he asks playfully, bright hazel eyes darting back and forth between the velvety box in his palm and Ushijima, who, to Oikawa’s boundless amusement, seems to be having trouble processing the abrupt turn of events, gaping at him with a shell-shocked expression from where he has frozen to the spot, Oikawa just barely out of his reach. “A gift?”

By the time Ushijima snaps out of it, forced into action by the sight of Oikawa idly toying with the box’s lid, it’s already too late. Ushijima jolts forward, but Oikawa has always been faster, more agile and much quicker to react. He dodges him with a wink, laughing as he hauls himself across the backrest of the couch to bring some more space between them.

 _“Tooru, please,”_ Ushijima half-shouts, half-pleads and it may have been the most tense, the most shaken Oikawa has ever seen him act, which, in hindsight, should have set off his alarm bells right then and there, should have made him pause and _think,_ put his own playful excitement aside, if only for a moment. 

“Will you, _please_ stop—“

As it is, Oikawa blazes his trail straight through the warning signs, wedging his fingertips into the gap dividing the small box into even halves and popping it open, brilliant specks of silver and white reflecting prettily in widening brown eyes.

He snaps it shut as urgently as he pried it apart not a minute ago. 

Like in a trance his free hand reaches backwards; disorientedly clutches at the low bookshelf near the living room door and knocks over a couple of potted succulents in his frantic search for something to hold on to. 

A surge of dizziness overcomes him, wave after rolling wave, each one more overwhelming than the last, thundering in his ears until it’s all he can do to keep himself upright.

He’s dreaming. Oikawa knows he is.

It wouldn’t be the first time, nor will it be the last.

When he opens his eyes, he’ll find himself sprawled out on the bed, alone, face pressed into the damp fabric of Ushijima’s pillow.

When he opens his eyes, there’s another pair of hands trying to gently wrestle the ring out of his own trembling ones.

Oikawa bites down on the inside of his lip, mouth filling with the taste of copper as he fights Ushijima tooth and nail, part of him paralyzed with the crazed thought that if he gives in now, if he lets go, Ushijima may change his mind after all.

“Tooru…” Ushijima urges once again, the familiar, deep tone of voice calming Oikawa’s nerves like a caress, commanding his attention back to Ushijima’s golden gaze, just in time to watch the crestfallen look in his eyes being swallowed up whole, replaced by one of iron determination as he goes down on one knee by Oikawa’s feet.

“To be frank, this is not how I had planned for this to go—” he continues on bravely, but Oikawa, a whirlwind of tingling impatience, is already upon him, strong arms wrapped around his neck and lips slotted against Ushijima’s, all but taking his mouth in storm.

 _“Yes,”_ he pants giddily. _“Yes, I do,”_ and shoots him a betrayed glare as Ushijima takes the opportunity to pry the ring out of Oikawa’s loosened grip, slips it onto his finger and lets himself fall back onto the floor with a longsuffering groan.

“You are a menace,” Ushijima mumbles into the arm thrown across his face, his wide, blissed out smile giving away that he isn’t complaining — not really, anyway.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

“I _was_ going to feed you your favorite breakfast that I spent the past few hours preparing, spread you out on the table and eat you out for dessert, then whisk you away to the lake, row us all the way out to the center and ask you to marry me,” Ushijima responds dryly.

Twisting the hem of his t-shirt between his diamond-studded fingers, Oikawa holds his breath as a ray of sunlight catches the large, beautifully cut center-stone, making stars dance before his eyes, and the gravity of the situation, the _reality_ of it, finally begins to sink in.

“I ruined it, didn’t I?”

He hesitantly inches closer; picks up Ushijima’s hand and places a featherlight kiss to his palm, another to his wrist in silent apology.

The truth is Oikawa is _happy._

So stupidly, deliriously happy, his body can barely contain it. Happier than he felt the moment he accepted his _Best Setter Award_ in front of an entire gymnasium at age fifteen, feeling on top of the world; happier than the day Iwaizumi told him he was a partner he was proud of, or the time he sternly reminded Oikawa that he would _always_ be his best friend; happier than he remembers being in a long time, maybe ever.

He hopes with all his might that Ushijima is too, that Ushijima understands he doesn’t need to impress him with expensive jewelry and fancy gestures because Oikawa has never been good with relationships, never been a keeper (or truly cared to be, not before Ushijima) and _this…_ this is so much more than he’d allowed himself to hope for.

As if reading his mind like an open book, Ushijima’s gaze softens.

“It’s been two years and you are still here with me, wearing my ring on your finger,” he says quietly, letting Oikawa lay down beside him and fit his body against Ushijima’s side like a puzzle piece. “I could hardly ask for anything more.”

They lie there in silence, Oikawa’s ear lightly pressed to Ushijima’s chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. Ushijima’s nails drag against his scalp in soothing strokes that have Oikawa humming with contentment.

That is until, eventually, his empty stomach makes itself noticeable, giving an undignified growl.

“Wakatoshi?” Oikawa murmurs sheepishly, lulled half-asleep by the scent of Ushijima’s cologne combined with his overpowering body heat. “Is it too late now? You think we could still...?”

—

Everything is blue, the stalks of wild flowers sprouting amidst the bushes and reeds along the lakeside, the rough denim of Ushijima’s jeans brushing against Oikawa’s hand where it’s rubbing slow circles into the skin of Ushijima’s bad ankle, the still surface of the water, reflecting the color of the sky above like a giant mirror.

He follows the clouds through half-lidded eyes, watches them float steadily onwards with the breeze, examines each one closely, just barely withstanding the urge to reach out in a hopeless attempt to touch, to feel for himself if they’re as downy as he used to imagine they would be.

“This one kind of looks like a bunny,” he muses, pointing up his finger as he’s twisting around in the space between Ushijima’s open thighs to see if he’s even listening. “Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah...” Ushijima murmurs, his warm gaze instinctively drawn to the soft, inviting curve of Oikawa’s mouth, sticky with glaze, kissed pink and swollen, practically asking to be claimed.

“You didn’t even— _hmm...“_

Despite himself, Oikawa parts his lips with a breathy sigh. He crumbles and caves, sinks back against Ushijima’s chest, lets him have his way until they’re both short of air and Ushijima manages to tear himself away for long enough to find Oikawa’s hand, silently guiding it up to his face.

“Do you like it?”

Distracted by the feeling of Ushijima’s mouth tenderly pressed to each one of his knuckles, Oikawa doesn’t quite catch on. One eyebrow raised in question, he waits for Ushijima to elaborate.

“The ring,” Ushijima eventually adds, a rare glint of uncertainty flickering in his stare before he averts his eyes to look across the water. They linger at a point far off in the distance, far away from the small confines of the row boat where Oikawa is all over him, sharp tongue hidden behind sweet smiles and sweeter kisses. 

Oikawa senses it in his stony demeanor, the way Ushijima braces himself for disappointment.

“I was looking at it for weeks. I worried that it was not going to be enough to do you justice.”

At that, Oikawa holds up his hand between them in disbelief, gesturing for Ushijima to hold it; give him a minute to process what he just heard. He plays the events of the past couple months over and over in his head, seeing from an entirely new perspective, eyes gradually narrowing into slits with dawning understanding as everything finally starts falling into place.

“So _that’s_ what you’ve been up to. This whole damn time— _I thought you—“_

“I never lied to you,” Ushijima cuts him off defensively. “I did go to the gym. I did buy flowers at the nursery and meet Tendou for drinks. After a few detours, that is. It could not be helped. Iwaizumi and I—”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Oikawa snaps, only to immediately reel himself back in, mentally counting down from ten while reminding himself that this isn’t Ushijima’s fault.

If he was to be completely honest with himself, he can’t blame Iwaizumi either. He should be relieved, for God’s sake, he _is_ , yet it’s proving rather difficult to forget about the dread, the pain, the self-loathing he’d felt each day that Ushijima seemed to slip from his grasp a little further.

“He helped me figure out your ring size without drawing suspicion. I could hardly have asked you without giving away my intentions. You do not normally wear any jewelry, so Iwaizumi charmed your parents into digging up one of the rings you used to occasionally wear in highschool. Iwaizumi’s mother was so kind to share her pastry recipes with us.”

 _Us,_ Oikawa thinks dumbfoundedly, the image of Iwaizumi blowing an unsuspecting Ushijima’s back out with a friendly clap to the shoulder after pulling their first successful batch of milk bread out of the oven nearly making him double over, barking out an incredulous laugh.

“When you became suspicious of my frequent absences, Iwaizumi suggested we stop meeting up in person. I could tell you were becoming... unhappy with me. I did not mean to make you feel abandoned.”

Cupping Ushijima’s cheek in silent reassurance, Oikawa rests his head against the hard muscle of his chest, ready to ease up at last; bask in the safety of the certain knowledge that Ushijima isn’t going anywhere anytime soon when a sudden realization has him sitting back up ramrod straight, choking on his own spit.

“That guy on the phone,” he grits out between his teeth. “The one that was constantly texting you— that was… Tell me I didn’t ask you to tell _Hajime_ to scram because you’d be busy screwing my brains out.”

Ushijima has the audacity to snort.

“You were staring daggers at me all night. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought you were jealous.”

“Of course I wasn’t _jealous_ ,” Oikawa sputters indignantly in the very same breath he chooses to point out that he’ll have to get Ushijima his own ring, lest anyone forget who he belonged to.

It’s ironic how, until less than an hour ago, Oikawa himself had needed the reminder.

—

He awakens surrounded by darkness, illuminated only by the dim, flickering glow of the nightlight by his bedside.

Fear, Oikawa remembers, is a creature of the night, biding its time until there’s nothing else left to fill the silence.

—

The higher you climb, the steeper the fall.

It’s a simple reality, ingrained in his being down to the marrow of his bones, trickling through his veins, bleeding him dry. 

It’s an itch in the back of his mind that he can’t shake, a constant companion, breathing down his neck, the pressure of cold fingers hovering over his windpipe.

_Went to see Hajime; not sure when I’ll be back. Don’t wait for me._

Oikawa sticks the note onto the counter, the back of his hand brushing against the flower vase perched by the edge of the dinner table on his way out the door.

He doesn’t look back.

—

“It’s funny, isn’t it? If I was a better person, more _selfless_ , I would have told him no, for his sake.”

_“That’s bullshit and you know it, Tooru—“_

—

_“How could he stand living with me if I can barely live with myself?”_

—

“Now pay attention because I’m only gonna say this once.”

“He’s got plenty of reasons to love you, we all do. No one’s fucking asking you to be perfect, so stop beating yourself up about it already, you hear me? You’ve been at it since we were what, eleven? I’ve seen enough. You’re engaged. You’re gonna be an Olympian this summer, for Christ’s sake. This ends now.”

—

  
  


Oikawa doesn’t recall the last time he’s let himself cry so uninhibitedly, eyes red-rimmed and puffy, voice hoarse as he heaves up another shaky sob, cheeks flushed and skin burning where it’s glistening with salt and fresh tears.

After a decade of falling, hurtling ever closer towards what he’s long come to accept to be the inevitable conclusion, he hits rock bottom, brought to his knees in the middle of Iwaizumi’s cramped studio apartment.

It’s there, that epiphany strikes like the roaring crack of thunder, making his ears ring with the sheer force of it, and Oikawa begins to understand that if he goes on this way, if he continues to rely on anybody’s but his own faith, he will never truly rise from the ashes.

 _You’ll be an Olympian this summer,_ Iwaizumi had hollered, the fingers of his right hand clenching and unclenching by his side, one more word out of Oikawa’s mouth away from grabbing him by the front of his shirt and shaking him to his senses. 

He’d said it firmly, as if there was no other option because he’d known that there isn’t. 

Not unless Oikawa allows there to be.

Iwaizumi had seen the way Ushijima looked at Oikawa and taken it for what it was because there’d never been a doubt in his heart that Oikawa, flawed and difficult as he may be, deserves to be loved.

The waning echo of their conversation transports Oikawa back to that fateful morning at the park, conjures up memories of Ushijima’s straightforward, unwavering belief that Oikawa is cut out for greatness, that he’ll soar above anyone; of the trust in Ushijima’s stare when their eyes met across the court moments before they conquered; of Ushijima’s voice, reduced to a quivering whisper, when he took Oikawa apart the night before, deep and slow, promising him that he’s the only one.

 _What a fool you are,_ the voice in his head chides and at this moment it almost sounds peaceful. 

Oikawa knows better than to believe that it will never bare its fangs at him again, but he wants to have faith in himself, have faith in Ushijima. Ushijima, who sees him in a way no one else does, sees the darkness and embraces it, soothes it, sees when the waves of anxiety threaten to clash above his head and pulls him back above water.

—

“So, what are you waiting for?” Iwaizumi demands after what feels like hours when, realistically, it can’t have been more than fifteen minutes since they talked. “Go home and talk to your idiot husband, let him take care of you.“

Before Oikawa can think better of it, the corners of his mouth twitch up into a weak, yet wolfish grin; dark, hooded eyes flashing mischievously through the tears caught in his lashes.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll _take care of me_ all right,” he sighs, preparing himself to dodge Iwaizumi’s fist and dive off the bed at a second’s notice.

“With his big— _OW!_ ”

Strong fingers mercilessly wrap around his ankle and jerk him backwards, leaving his upper body dangling off the edge of the mattress like a ragdoll. And he laughs, feels it bubble up his stomach until his entire body is shaking with it, laughs until his throat feels hoarse and his stomach hurts and Iwaizumi’s expression gets caught somewhere between disgust and incredible relief.

“You’re pushing your luck, Trashykawa,” Iwaizumi growls half-heartedly, kicks at Oikawa’s shin while threatening to shove him off the bed if he doesn’t start watching his filthy mouth.

Oikawa hardly catches any of it, dreamy gaze fixed on the jewels sparkling prettily around his finger, imagining Ushijima sucking it between his lips.

Iwaizumi’s foot collides with his hip once more, harder this time, but Oikawa ignores him to fish for his phone that dropped onto the carpet during his failed attempt to escape Iwaizumi’s wrath a few minutes earlier.

 **[Tooru] 4:56 P.M:** What are you doing?

Expecting Ushijima to take some time to respond, Oikawa opens the camera app and pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to find the perfect angle to snap a picture of his left hand. 

“Stop harassing me, you ruined the photo,” he complains over his shoulder.

Behind him Iwaizumi rolls his eyes but finally holds still, at least until Oikawa seems satisfied with his picture.

“I seriously can’t believe you haven’t bragged about this all over your social media yet,” he grumbles, not even bothering to hide how pleased he is to see Oikawa acting somewhat like himself again. 

Oikawa turns up his nose at the fond jab, racking his brain for a caption that will make his followers go green with jealousy as his phone chimes softly with a new text notification.

 **[Wakabaka ♡] 5:02 P.M:** I am thinking about you.

Fondness blooms in his heart, swells until his chest can barely contain it. 

If someone had told him five years ago that he would end up finding Ushijima’s bluntness criminally charming, he would have laughed straight in their face.

 **[Tooru] 5:02 P.M:** Don’t you always?

 **[Wakabaka ♡] 5:02 P.M:** Yes.

As matters stand now, Oikawa smiles like a fool, prays that Iwaizumi doesn’t happen to be looking his way, or else chances are he’ll never let him live it down. 

Before he gets to finish typing out a quick text about dinner, a blurred photo pops up on his screen.

 **[Wakabaka ♡] 5:06 P.M:** I fixed your nightlight.

 **[Wakabaka ♡] 5:07 P.M:** You said it helps you feel calm when you have trouble sleeping.

Unbidden, his mind provides him with the image of Ushijima sitting at their kitchen table, bent over Oikawa’s lamp with that small, concentrated wrinkle on his forehead, large fingers carefully putting his lamp back together, piece by delicate piece. 

Oikawa doesn’t remember asking him to. 

When he thinks about it, he realizes that he hardly ever needs to _ask_ Ushijima for anything.

Almost instantly, guilt begins to rise like bile in his throat as he recalls leaving their apartment in a rush no more than a few hours prior without an explanation or a kiss, his head getting too loud for him to bear, the weight of the diamond ring on his finger too heavy with hopes that, at the time, he wasn’t sure he could afford harboring. 

Pulling himself together, he makes a conscious effort to nip the thought in the bud.

He glances at Iwaizumi out of the corner of his eye, his best friend’s words, spoken with such absolute confidence, echoing over and over inside his head, and is met with an eyebrow silently raised at him in question.

_He’s got plenty of reasons to love you, we all do._

And maybe, Oikawa decides, Ushijima has long seen all of him. 

Maybe he has decided to love him anyway.

 _Not despite but because of it_ , he thinks, feeling a little daring.

—

Ushijima doesn’t look up from the spray bottle in his hands when Oikawa slides open the balcony door, quietly as to not startle him, and slips past the bottles of plant fertilizer, watering cans and other gardening tools cluttering the area. 

Crouching in front of a large bush of gardenias, he mists each branch carefully before moving on to a pair of small pruning scissors without a word.

For a few minutes Oikawa silently watches him work, frowning at the strange air of broodiness surrounding his partner, distant and unapproachable, the unusual stiffness of Ushijima’s movements, but ultimately decides not to dwell on it. Ushijima gets like this sometimes, if rarely these days, and it isn’t like Oikawa has any right to blame him after the stunt he pulled earlier this morning.

There’s something he has to tell Ushijima while he still has the courage to do so. 

He’s done running. 

He’s ready to take the leap and talk to Ushijima, really _talk_ to him, put the half-truths and needless misunderstandings behind them and start over on a clean slate. 

Or at least that was the plan until Ushijima speaks up out of the blue, the light in his eyes dulled by the same detached sadness Oikawa remembers lurking there when they were younger, Ushijima looking on from a distance as Oikawa pretended to be flirting with their former team captain minutes after kissing Ushijima breathless behind the gym.

“You’re having second thoughts.” 

It’s not a question.

Oikawa feels his jaw drop in disbelief.

“I told you that I do not care what you said or thought about me in the past, but the same does not hold true for you.”

“I am not terribly good with words. Back then… I did not know how to talk to you, as the setter I admired and much less as the boy I liked. I cannot take back what I said to you. I know that I am not what you wanted, but I hoped that over time you would see that I am trying,” Ushijima says numbly, hanging his head like the wilting flower crushed between his fingers. It floats to the ground, lands inches away from the neatly folded note Oikawa gave Ushijima all day to get into his head about.

“I am trying,” he repeats, more quietly this time, and before Oikawa knows it, he has already pushed forward into Ushijima’s space.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” he blurts out in a rush, tripping over his own words. “For being so selfish.”

“Look me in the eye, Wakatoshi. I am _not_ having second thoughts. I’d marry you right here, right now if I could. The ring— it’s _perfect_ , you’re—“

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks, stifles a frustrated growl as he struggles against his own cowardice. 

This may not be exactly how he imagined this conversation to go. So what? At this point it hardly matters. At this point he has bigger things to be concerned about.

“You’ve been chasing after me since middle school,” Oikawa forces out, grabbing Ushijima’s wide-eyed face between his hands and kissing him clumsily, knocking their foreheads together hard enough to make himself wince.

“I was afraid that one, two, ten years down the lane, when the excitement of finally _having_ me starts wearing off, you’d realize that I’m not what you expected. That you’d leave.”

“That’s—“ Ushijima starts, visibly exasperated, but Oikawa presses one long, slender finger to his lips, stopping him right there.

“I know,” he sighs and, amazingly, he thinks that he means it.

Trying not to squirm under Ushijima’s searching gaze, Oikawa’s teeth dig into the inside of his cheek in nervous anticipation. He knows Ushijima is on his guard, scanning his face for any trace of dishonesty. 

The wait is agonizing, to put it mildly, but when, after the longest thirty seconds of Oikawa’s life, Ushijima’s jaw relaxes, the tension leaving the wide line of his shoulders, Oikawa knows he has passed the test; lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“Thank you for repairing my lamp,” he says because it’s the first thing that comes to mind, because he’d say almost anything to distract from the surge of embarrassment following his awkward confession and not least because it’s true.

Oikawa Tooru doesn’t deal particularly well with feeling embarrassed. 

(Apparently, he doesn’t deal particularly well with a lot of things, but that’s a problem for a different day.)

“I can help you with your flowers if you—?”

“If I’m willing to risk letting you drown another one?” Ushijima finishes Oikawa’s offer with a small, less than convinced frown forming between his brows.

“Teach me then,” Oikawa huffs, bending down to pick up a miniature garden shovel just to poke Ushijima in the chest with it, flashing him a vaguely threatening smile.

“We have a garden to practice for, remember?”

—

Oikawa steps out of the fogged-up shower stall with a long stretch and a complacent smile, so wide his cheeks are burning with the strain. 

Hot steam persistently clings to his skin, flushed and tender, as he rubs himself dry with a fresh towel. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, grin sharpening into something borderline feral. As far as he is concerned, their private after party is just about to begin.

Pushing his dripping bangs out of his face, Oikawa checks himself out in the mirror. He pulls the ribbon of his medal over his head, licks his lips at the way the cold metal shimmers against his chiseled torso like golden honey, outshone only by the smooth wedding band on his finger. 

Still reeling from the emotional rollercoaster of the past twenty-four hours, the stress, the nerves, the crackling tension, built up over weeks and weeks of rigorous practice, and, finally, the dizzying thrill of victory when he watched the opponent libero’s jaw go slack with horror, Oikawa’s final jump serve ricocheting off his battered forearms unchecked, Oikawa knows he should feel completely and utterly beat, yet somehow finds himself buzzing with a staggering amount of excess energy.

It lights up every fiber of his being, pumps through his arteries like liquid ecstasy, mind racing with thoughts of the haunting look in Ushijima’s eyes the moment Oikawa took the set and the Olympic gold for Japan.

“What does it feel like, being _‘Oikawa’s Cannon’_?” he couldn’t help teasing halfway through their first press conference, a hushed whisper for no one but Ushijima to hear. “Don’t fret about it, Ushiwaka, you’ll always be _my_ number one.”

There was a glint of amusement in Ushijima’s gaze flashing behind the familiar mask of impeccable discipline.

“You mean number one on your shitlist?”

“You need to stop hanging out with Iwaizumi already,” Oikawa groaned, side-eyeing Ushijima over the rim of his half-empty glass of water in the same breath he tightened his grip around Ushijima’s hand under the table in quiet encouragement as another overly enthusiastic reporter fired off a barrage of questions he knows Ushijima would rather have pretended he didn’t hear.

Where Oikawa thrives in the media’s spotlight, smiling generously and soaking up every last drop of his admirers’ attention, Ushijima finds it draining, uncomfortable at best. Indulging Oikawa nonetheless, he stuck with him through one too many interviews and let Oikawa grind up against him to the pulsing beat of foreign music at a number of high-end clubs, Oikawa’s mouth tasting like champagne and heady promises.

Promises that Oikawa intends on keeping.

He doesn’t bother getting dressed, driven mad with pent-up want by the phantom sensation of Ushijima throbbing and swelling against his eager tongue. 

The sight that greets him when he walks out into their shared hotel room, ready to drop to his knees and spread his legs for Ushijima to take what’s rightfully his, quickly forces him to reconsider his rather well thought out plans for the remainder of the night.

“Wakatoshi?” he breathes, carefully approaching Ushijima’s side of the king-sized bed in the center of the room where Ushijima is sitting, slumped back against the headboard, his strong, handsome features softened by sleep and overwhelming exhaustion.

Ushijima stirs at the sound of their medals lightly clinking together over his partway unbuttoned dress shirt as Oikawa leans over him to seal his lips with a lingering kiss, slowly peeling him out of the stupidly expensive suit that he figures he’ll have to find another time to ruin after all.

Not quite willing to let go of the golden weight against his chest just yet, he leaves it on, coaxes Ushijima into rolling over onto his side with gentle fingers. 

“You did so well,” he murmurs into the dip between Ushijima’s shoulder blades, mouthing at every inch of taut bronzed skin within his reach. Ushijima shifts and squirms in his embrace, refusing to give it a rest until Oikawa rolls his eyes affectionately, his hand beginning to rub slow circles into the soft skin of Ushijima’s stomach.

The faint thrum of music and laughter spills through the open window from the terrace several stories below, where the celebration continues into the early hours of morning, calling out to his ever-restless mind. 

Oikawa closes his eyes and lets it wash over him, lets himself drift; his nose filled with the warm scent of pine trees and fresh linen, buried in the curve of Ushijima’s neck.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear how you felt about this chapter, or my fic as a whole, so feel free to talk to me in the comments!
> 
> You can also hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OlKAWAT00RU)! ♡

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to talk to me in the comments if you liked this chapter - like I said last time, I love reading everyone's thoughts and getting to cry over UshiOi with you guys, it’s what keeps me going!
> 
> You can also hit me up on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/OlKAWAT00RU)! ♡


End file.
